Spinning the Wheel
by Sapsorrow86
Summary: The evolution of a romance, from the reunion to the happily-ever-after... if they can make it that far.
1. Chapter 1: The Wait

**Okay, so against my better judgment my muse has decided I shoul like, totally write this OUAT fanfic because it's not like I have a job or homework or anything. It'll be a sort of series of one-shots in chronological order that relate but you may feel like some sort of central plot is missing. They'll be snapshots into the growing relationship of Belle and Rumplestiltskin in Storybrooke with some of the other characters as pretty, pretty background. This first chapter is kinda the "boring" one but the needed one, it introduces how I picture Belle in Storybrooke, locked in that mental ward.**

**I realize my take on what may happen is very optimistic, that things should be harsher and more difficult and you might feel like it's not very realistic but this is what I was compelled to write and trying to make it grittier got me nowhere, so it's fluffier than what I feel reality would be. Still, enjoy.**

**And please, if you think any character OOC point it out (as well as tell me why). The most difficult one to write is Rumple, but he's also the most fun!**

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><p>The Queen stared only for a moment. She knew she would not linger, and soon heard the familiar sound of stilettos against the hard concrete floor. It had taken her a while to know what a stiletto was, and concrete as well. But she knew now, that and more. She has made it her life mission to hear and learn, to retain as much information about this… reality as she could.<p>

She shuddered to remember her first days in the padded cell. Above all she had felt disoriented, lost. She had gone to sleep in a dank, circular room, huddled close to the still-glowing corpse of Caia, a rather unfortunate fairy that had managed to incur the wrath of the Evil Queen and had been her cellmate form many months before succumbing to the disease all fairies suffered eventually around iron. She had held the body of the old, wise little creature fearing the morning, when they would take her away.

The next morning she had woken up to find herself alone, sans body. It had taken her a moment to notice the change in her surroundings. The stone walls now padded, the oval windows now barred, yet still rectangular, and a sort of strange, white light faintly coming through them. Her jailors had changed. Now there was a woman, dressed in a strange white dress, a bit on the short side in her opinion, and a rather silent man with long hair and a sort of brusque, brutish manner.

She had learned soon enough that asking questions, mentioning her father, her town, the Ogre Wars, her dead fairy companion and specially the Queen brought about disapproving looks and punishment. It lead to discussions of her "delusions", of upping her "medication" (she had learned through painful experiences that medicines were like potions that usually left her catatonic, or sleepy or numb and that where, therefore, better avoided) and of "informing the Mayor". That frightened her more than anything and had help her realize that she had to stop mentioning anything, absolutely anything, that her caretakers found odd.

Because, when they medicated her so much she would sleep for days, foreign thoughts and memories would creep up on her. Memories of people she had never met and some she had, but that in her dreams looked different. Memories of her father as a sort of flower seller, of meeting a woman with red and black hair wearing little to no clothes, and her grandmother, and a blond girl, and a stutter-prone boy with curly hair and… And it was wrong, all wrong. Not real. Her mind rebelled against it, fought it. Concentrated on her last real memories, on Caia and the straw pile she had called a bed and the voices of the other prisoners, some men, some women, that wondered at all hours of the day about the fate in store for them. Thinking of it helped, kept the lies away. Specially thoughts of Caia, who even dead and gone seemed to want to help her.

Learning what "normal" was here had taken her another long while. But, fortunately, she had time to spare. Time to gauge the people around her, try to see what would prompt them to talk or share anything that would give her clues about this "new world" she knew not stretched well past her cell. A world she was supposed to know, but didn't.

She had suffered a setback when she had, in her eagerness to inform herself and thus avoid more medicine than the one they routinely shoved down her throat, acted a bit too lucid for the Queen's peace of mind… Well, not queen. Mayor here, apparently. Mayor like her father had been once. She had tried to question her, at first innocuously and then with increasing malice in her eyes, about her life in Storybrooke, wherever that was. Having pushed the fake recollections away she had no answers to give, and that had seemed to displease the Queen tremendously.

What had come next she shuddered to remember. Being strapped to a table, feeling something zapping her, hurting her. Then she had had things jammed into her. Needles, she had learned, things that inserted the poison they called "medicine". She had been catatonic for months, if her recollection of seasonal change was correct. Her skin had been marred with bruises and scratches a long time, since she apparently had struggled against her captors a great deal.

The fake memories had oozed into her mind, toxic and unpleasant. She had started to believe her father sold flowers, and that she knew a rather out-spoken woman who wore little clothing and a mousy man who owned a dog. That had been in a place called Storybrooke, and gone to a place called "school", and that her mother had committed suicide because she had not been "right in the head" and that was why she had delusions and believed things that were not true, because it was in her blood. She had had to fight hard against those thoughts, fight to recover the memory of a mother who had been kind and understanding and level-headed, though she had died rather young. A mother who would have never willingly left her only daughter behind. Not all of her had come back. There were a lot of holes, of doubts, empty sports she could not fill for herself. But what she had was enough.

So she had learned she shouldn't talk about what was real to her, but couldn't talk about her pretend life because she had pushed it aside, had rejected it. It was quite a dilemma until she had realized that there was a third option. She could pretend to be gone, to have lost herself to the medicine, the drugs. That was what they had wanted all along, for her to be numb, absent, vacant.

Pretending had been easy compared to trying to retain some sanity at the same time. After a while of doing nothing, of sitting and staring at the floor never talking and never moving her mind and body would feel sluggish. So she had set about to try and reconstruct her shattered memories, to put all the pieces, the ones she had, in order. She had also taken to counting the number of peas she was served at dinner, naming the types of trees she could recall, organizing every new titbit of information she would gain from the nurse when she would talk with the orderly within earshot. She could do little for the state of her body. The cell she was in was sometimes too cold and other too hot, and she hardly got enough food sometimes. She still received daily pills, most of which she learned to pretend to swallow and then hid inside a padded panel with a rather small tear to the side. But the most powerful medication, in the form of injections, she could never avoid, and she would will herself not to struggle as she received it. Later she would battle its effects, though some of her mental exercises would become undone and she would forget part of her childhood, or the name of her favourite mare and mistake a fake memory for an actual recollection. Those days were unpleasant, to say the least, and she wouldn't have to pretend to feel defeated and depressed when Madame Mayor would come calling.

Shortly after the Mayor's last visit, the nurse served her food. It was rather abundant compared to other days and she wanted to eat it all, but she managed to leave most of it untouched. Uneaten food made them further believe her lie (that she is crazy and gone, gone for good). She recalled a moment, a long time ago, shortly after a set of injections, when she had wondered if the lie wasn't actually the truth, if the fake memories were in fact real and vice versa.

As she took a bite out of the blueberry pie, because she adored blueberry pie and absolutely had to take a bite, she thought about the dark magic that must surely be behind it, wondered how far it stretched, how deep it went and how it could be broken, for all curses can be broken (Caia had told her so). And thoughts of dark magic, as always, led to other thoughts, to the recollection of a set of memories that stood vividly in her head, brighter than any of her others. For once she gave herself up to those memories, to sensations like the smell of leather and spicy magic and books, and straw, and gold, and man, the sound of tinkling china and insane giggles that were like music to her ears. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would be strong, she would focus on the practical instead of fanciful musings.

One day she would leave, she knew it in her veins. And she needed to be as prepared as possible.

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><p><strong>Next chapter gold finds out about Belle and man, he's not happy.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2: The Discovery

**Well, I like how many people like this pairing enough to read a fic about it! And thanks for the reviewers for giving their thoughts on a rather boring chapter. This one is much more interesting and the next one even better. **

**I introduce here Mr. Gold, absolutely terrified that you will tell me that he's extremely OOC. But please do, if he is. I already have like seven chapters written but I can revise them if I get a well-argumented explanation about some fault I've made.**

**Thanks a lot too to the people that added me to Alerts and Favourites. I hope this chapter inspires you to review so I may get to know you better. If not I hope it keeps you interested in the story. See you!**

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><p>He had agreed to the meeting because of boredom, mainly. He had made the conscious decision to lay low shortly after he had been released from jail (Moe French had, of course, refuse to file charges, no matter how many times Miss Swan pleaded with the foolish old man). It was a new chess game the one he was playing with Her Majesty the Mayor and he felt it wise to lay low till an opportunity, a good one, presented itself. His patience knew no ends, after all, and it always paid to wait and see.<p>

He does not want to acknowledge that part of the reason he has done little as of late besides gathering information and keeping a discreet eye on Regina was because the look the Queen had given him shortly before leaving him alone on his cell. That was the look of a woman who knew something his opponent did not, something that gave her the upper hand.

All his attempts at finding out what that was had so far proved unsuccessful. It irks him, this ignorance, this blindness. He prides himself in anticipating the moves of his adversary but this unknown made him hesitate, wonder. Having laid out such a specific plan, one that had taken countless years to put into motion, he's ill-at-ease knowing there might be something he hadn't planned for.

He has been careful not to let his uncomfortable insecurity seep into his demeanour. He's still the charming-yet-endlessly-disturbing landlord, pawnbroker and loan shark everyone in Storybrooke loves to hate, including new resident sheriff Emma Swan, who was equal parts defiant and respectful in his presence.

He checks his pocket-watch with something akin to a sneer curling at the edges of his mouth. She's five minutes late, and he hates to be kept waiting. He doesn't have anything else planned for the day, but he doesn't particularly not fancy staying more than what was absolutely necessary in the filthy alley just behind Granny's Dinner.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes as she finally materializes a few feet away, the trench-coat and glasses a bit dramatic for him. He smiles pleasantly, the way he knew people hated, and make a show of checking the time again.

"Ah, Miss Richards, how nice of you to finally show up" he greets in a genial tone, tapping his cane idly against a crate. A mouse hiding behind it scurries away.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gold, I had trouble leaving my mother… She had a coughing attack… You know she…"

"Yes, yes, yes, the poor Mrs. Richards. Very sick, very tragic" he puts on the appropriate grim expression, knowing she won't buy it. No one does "I gather her condition is no better?"

Anna Richards eyes him with contempt and he can tell she's biting back some very interesting words. Finally she shakes her head, lips set in a thin line.

"We are not here to discuss my mother. We are here to settle the matter of the money I owe you"

He would like to point out that both topics are one and the same. That it had been her mother's rather astronomical hospital bills that had led Anna to go to him for a deal. He rather enjoys the undercurrent of hate that he catches every time Anna Richards seaks of her mother, the hag she has to put up with because she hasn't manage to escape spinsterhood and build a family of her own. But he's rather looking forward to ending the conversation and getting as far away from the greasy smell coming out of Granny's kitchen as possible.

Oh, Granny would kill him for such a thought.

"Very well then, dearie, I'm all ears"

He settles both his hands atop the gold handle of his cane, resting his weight easily there. He watches as the woman fumbles with her oversized purse, her nurse cap spilling out of it and into the grimy pavement. She finally manages to snatch a package from inside and, after stuffing the cap back into the bag, presents it to him.

"Is that the money? Surely, my dear, there were better places to give it to me than here"

She sighs, shakes her head.

"It's not the money. I thought that you could forgive the debt, for this"

She trusts the package at him but the pawnbroker moves not an inch, doesn't even glance at it.

"I very much doubt that whatever is in that package is worth that much"

He means to cow her, to embarrass her for believing she would ever possess something he wants. If that had ever been the case he would own it already. Miss Richards, however, proves uncooperative. She shakes the package, stepping closer to him, shoving it into his face almost. It would have unsettled anyone else to see the perpetually calm and collected Nurse Richards so unhinged.

"This is worth it. It should be, since it could very well cost me my job"

Something in her tone piques his curiosity. He gingerly grasps the package. It's a manila envelope and inside he sees invoices and bills and budget papers, all from Storybrooke hospital. He also sees a files, three or four, some thin, one a bit meatier.

"I'd wager you are not supposed to be in possession of these documents, dearie" he flips through some of the bills and the budget papers "Whatever could have made you be such a naughty nurse?"

He knows how unbelievably disturbing she finds his phrasing, and relishes in her fleeting expression of disgust. Then she glances at the papers and looks, once again, jittery and unsure.

"I thought you could use them… Against the Mayor, I mean. Everyone knows you two aren't the best of friends"

An understatement, but Gold lets it slide.

"I mean, I'm sure this would make such a scandal that I doubt she'd ever get elected again"

No use pointing out Regina had never been elected or that no elections would ever be held for her position and no one would notice.

"Well, dearie, I'm aquiver with anticipation"

She takes some of the papers out of the envelope and arranges them.

"Some years ago, I cannot remember how many, the mayor came by my house, to visit my ailing mother, she said. This was before the loan, during a time I when I thought I could pull through with some extra work. The mayor seemed sympathetic to my plight, sat down with me for a cup of tea and made me a job offer. Storybrooke Hospital had turned down my request for extra shift three times already so I eagerly said yes, even if the offer did seem a little sketchy. She emphasize the need for secrecy a lot and I thought nothing of it. By the time I realized what the job entailed I was already in too deep"

Anna Richards pauses and inhales rather loudly. Gold wagers she would like nothing more than a cigarette at the moment. Too bad he doesn't care much for the smell.

"Are you aware of what goes on at the basement level of the hospital?"

Ah, at last this meeting gets interesting. He shakes his head, motioning for her to continue.

"Of course not. No one is, save the mayor, myself and the man who tends to the furnace and such. For the past several years, I don't even remember how many, there has been a secret ward functioning near the Furnace Room. There are four people in there, mentally ill, or at least that's what I was told and what they looked like. They appear in no official hospital record save for the ones I have just handed to you. The hospital budget, as you will see, covers the expense as an unidentified "miscellanea". No doctor has ever been down save for Dr. Whale, and he is no psychiatrist. The conditions are rather poor and the… patients are usually underfed and undertreated as far as physical health goes" once the words started coming out they seemed easier and easier to say. In for a penny… "The patients have no name, receive no visitors save the occasional visit from the mayor and talk to no one. They haven't left the basement for years. Nothing about that ward is even remotely legal"

Oh, the words are so sweet Mr. Gold feels barely miffed he hasn't heard of this secret of Regina's before. He scans the documents anew, now knowing what he's looking for. The nurse is still talking about treatments and shock therapy, work schedules, injections and other such nonsense but he's barely hears her, so intent he is thinking about how to fit this new advantage into his plan.

And, a second later, all the papers he has in his hands fall to the floor, as well as three of the four files. And he forgets how to breathe and blinks, so deep in denial he is that he imagines this is some sort of cruel prank Regina has decided to play on him. His grip on his cane tightens and he wonders if he'll feel any sort of remorse for hitting a woman. He thinks it unlikely.

But in the next moment things click inside his head and he allows himself to look with greedy delight, unabashed pleasure. Her features are more angular than he remembers- _and oh, how he remembers_- and her eyes seem duller, unfocused, the bags under them purple and prominent. But it is her, curly chestnut hair and all, matted as it seems in the picture. It's her and after a lifetime of memories his mind feasts on her, the imp inside him giggling manically, suffocating him. Noticing that somehow he has managed to drop the cane he staggers somewhat inelegantly towards a wall, uncaring of the spectacle he is likely making of himself.

The first flash of euphoria fades, sizzling a moment through his veins before it's gone, and as he flips the pages of the file- _"her file, her file, her file"_, an eager, maniacal voice inside him whispers with barely-contained glee, almost singing- his heart plummets and he sees red. By the time he has finished reading a brief report on the improvements presented by the patient after experimental rounds of electro-shock therapy he has thrown his carefully thought-out plan out the proverbial window and now wonders how long it would take him to drive to his house, pick up his gun, swing by the Queen's lovely late-Victorian home and blow both her kneecaps off.

He's heard it is a very painful place to get shot at. And, he muses, he could miss the first couple of times and hit a shoulder, or a thigh. Ah, yes, that would be lovely.

"Mr. Gold?"

It takes more time than it should for Anna Richards to get his attention. She half-thinks he's having some sort of panic attack and regrets, for a moment, arranging the meeting. The mayor will ruin her, she knows it, but the deadline was coming and her mother needed a new nebulizer and… and…

"Well, well, it seems you have been a naughty nurse indeed" the voice coming out of Mr. Gold's mouth cannot be human, she thinks, and shivers "And for a long, long time"

The way he casually crouches to retrieve his cane and swiftly straightens back up reminds the nurse of some sort of jungle cat, graceful and menacing. He prowls towards her and his eyes, inexplicably, seem more gold than brown.

She cannot meet those eyes. He grabs her arm, and she knows the bruises will last her a lifetime.

"Now, my dear, about that debt…" he purrs, his Scottish accent thick "I think this should do nicely, provided you never tell Madame Mayor that you've decided to let me in on her dirty, little secret. Not that you would do that, of course" he laughs and it's the most awful sound she's ever heard "Not if you wish to keep your job"

He releases her, pushing her harshly towards the exit of the alley. She wastes no time to put as much distance between herself and the pawnbroker, never looking behind. If she does she might turn to stone.

The person she leaves behind is more imp than man at this point. The power of the dark one, supressed mostly by the curse, threatens to choke him. _"She's alive, alive, alive…"_ maniacal laughter _"The Queen lied, she fucking lied, she was not gone forever, she's here, all warm skin and soft curves and hands so pleasant against your thigh…"_ a shudder, half lust, half desperation _"She's been here, all this time, reachable, touchable… kissable…"_ his mind conjures up enticing images, suggestions about what he should do when he has her at arm's length again, and he moans and keens and wills his self-control to come back because there is no time to waste.

And, as soon as he has the imp in him as quiet as he will ever get, he starts making his way out of the alley, in the general direction of the police station.

Time to collect an old favour.

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><p><strong>Next Chapter: The lovers meet again.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3: The Favour

**So far so good, I cannot stop freaking writing. Still I am terrified of this and the next chapter cause I run the risk of making Rumple too sappy. Someone pointed out that I should be careful and boy, did it scare me... Cause they are right. We have so little insight into how Rumple is with Belle, we just know he's different but just in what measure it's difficult to gauge. I hope my Mr. Gold is not too unbelievably corny. If he is, please feel free to point it out (gently, Rumbelle leaves me frail and vulnerable).**

**I know the actual meeting in this chapter is sooooo short. If I get a lot of feedback I'll try to post sooner. Enjoy**

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><p>When Mr Gold asks her do to him a little favour part of her is relieved. She will at last fulfil her end of the deal and be done with the awful burden of owing something to the town's devil. She finds him more serious than usual. She had imagined that when he came to collect he would be eager, gleeful, exultant. Yet her he is, standing in front of her, all grim and practical and driven.<p>

Disturbingly driven.

He explains the context of his request to her. At first, when she hears of the mayor's awful secret, she tries to convince her to expose her, and the vehemence of his response startles her. He is adamantly set against it.

Then he gets, finally, to his specific request.

"At precisely eight pm Nurse Richards will go to the hospital's cafeteria to eat dinner. You are to enter through the furnace room, which has a door that leads to the back of the hospital, and find a patient" he pauses, takes something out of his pocket, reluctantly hands it to her "A woman, 5'2", 102 pounds, brown hair, light blue eyes. Her file mentions she is kept sedated most of the time and is non-responsive, so I don't think you will have a hard time with her. Get her out and bring her to my house"

Emma glances at the photo and rather than noticing the face of the girl she sees the worn edges, the wear and tear of a picture regularly handled.

She wants to ask many questions, and object for many reasons, but knows it will do little good. Finally she tries the practical approach.

"Look, Mr Gold, I don't know if you have ever dealt with mental patients but, aside from wildly erratic behaviour, there are a lot of medical issues to contemplate. This girl has probably been given, regularly, God knows what sort of drugs and will need expert care and…"

He interrupts her, swift and final.

"It's all been taken care of, Miss Swan, but your concern is touching"

She enlists the help of Mary Margaret, timid as she is, because she will not be able to handle driving and looking after the girl at the same time. She swears her to secrecy and, knowing this is what it took to save Ashley's baby, her friend agrees to help at once and never tell anyone. She leaves her inside the car, motor running, and goes into the hospital as soon as her watch displays 8 o'clock.

Inside everything goes surprisingly smoothly. Everything is as Mr Gold said, keys over there, orderly conveniently called away because his car had been "stolen", and at the end of a rather creepy corridor a metal door, behind which there is a girl, breathing but doing little more.

When she grabs her the girl barely startles. She cannot hold herself up, but she is rather light so it doesn't pose much of a problem to half-drag her out. Emma chides herself for not getting a coat for her, the weather is rather nasty, so she hastens to the car. Mary Margaret moves to the back and helps the girl settle while the sheriff quickly hightails it out of the hospital parking lot.

They are halfway to the finish line when the girl starts to fight, to reject the schoolteacher's gentle touches and attempts to cover her with her own parka. She grunts, voice too hoarse to shout, and the sounds make Mary Margaret cry and Emma wish she could cover her ears, or become spontaneously deaf.

"Is she going into shock?" she shouts to her roommate, who shrugs.

"How am I supposed to know?"

She parks a few feet away from the pawnbroker's house, to allow her friend to stay hidden. The girl is fighting fiercely now, muttering "no"s and pushing her hands away but years of bounty-hunting has made her an expert in handling people who don't want to be handled. The girl breathes rapidly and harshly and her lungs must be burning from the cold air, not to mention the fact that the clothes she has on barely cover her. She's scared and Emma can sympathize with that.

She sees Mr Gold open his front door and rush outside, surprisingly limber for a guy who uses a cane. She gestures for him to step back, let her handle the situation, though he seems to barely hear her, all his senses trained on the girl.

"Look, Mr Gold, let me take her inside, she's rather feisty at the…"

But the rest of the sentence dies on her lips, because the girl has looked up for the first time, and Mr Gold has gotten close enough to push her hair away from her face and…

And the struggling stops. The girl has her wide eyes trained on the pawnbroker's face and she's suddenly quiet and calm and, Emma sees this in her eyes, fine. Rational. _There_.

She lets her go, and the girl immediately holds onto Mr Gold's shoulders, seeking touch instead of fighting it. When she deems herself stable enough one of her hands move upwards, ghosting over the tips of the man's hair as she bites her lip. But the true shock comes when Mr Gold- _Mr Gold_- tilts his head to the side so her hand brushes against the side of his jaw. And then he closes his eyes and freaking exhales, practically one step away from nuzzling into a mental patient's hand.

The girl moves her hand to follow the line of his nose, his upper cheeks, his bottom lip. Emma feels like she's being privy to something very intimate and wants to leave, but she will see this through, will get the girl inside the house.

"It's…" the sheriff jumps in surprise as the girl's hoarse voice reaches her ears "It's… You"

She has little time to wonder about anything, because suddenly the girl's eyes roll to the back of her head and she slumps towards the ground. Mr Gold is surprisingly faster than her and quickly snakes an arm around her waist, pressing her against him. She wants to help but he won't let her touch the girl and is reduced to hovering as the pawnbroker struggles with his bad leg to climb up the stairs to his house and, once he is inside, to make it to the nearest couch. As he lays her down she become restless again so he carefully gets a hold of her left wrist and starts drawing circles on it with his thumb.

"Shh, my dear" his voice is low, his accent thick and has a warmth Emma has never heard before. It strangely creeps her out "Everything's fine now".

It takes a while and some more crooning from Gold but the girl relaxes, allowing the man to fill in a syringe with a clear liquid and gently but firmly inject her.

"This will counter nicely some of the filth they've been giving her. She'll go through some rather painful detox, but it will be quick" he's doing her a kindness, Emma knows, because certainly he owes her no explanations. She tries not to let her eyes wonder to Mr Gold's hands, which are currently outlining the purple bruises and needle marks on the girl's right arm.

She wants to stay a little while and, at the same time, wants to get out as quickly as possible. Finally he makes the decision for her.

"Your end of the bargain has been fulfilled, Sheriff Swan. You can go home"

She turns, barely catching a glimpse of Mr Gold draping a soft blue blanket over the girl, and swiftly exists the house, firmly shutting the door behind her. Tomorrow she'll think about getting answers, about dealing with the mayor's reaction, about starting an investigation into that basement and evaluating the state of the other patients.

That's tomorrow. Today she just wants some hot chocolate with cinnamon and a warm bed.

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><p><strong>So there it is. There is a reason why I think Mr Gold would cash in the favour Emma owes him to save Belle instead of going about it a different way and it will be pointed out later on. If you desperately want to know just let me know and I'll PM you the explanation.<strong>

**Next chapter: The Meeting (as in, they exchange more than two words).**


	4. Chapter 4: The Meeting

**I got so many in-depth reviews I just had to post this. I'm aall finished with ten chapters, and the last one is... steamy. Believe me, it pays to wait for it, in my most humble opinion.**

**Thanks so much for those who review more than once, for those who take their time (I know it's difficult to write reviews) and for those who keep on reading.**

**Clarification: I love that you like the Imp, he is awesome to write. But beware: the imp is not Rumple as he was in Fairytale Land. The imp is an exaggeration of that, an extreme. Rumple before the Queen's curse was more imp than man and after he is more man than imp, but he's always been both. Belle has a strange effect on both that will be remarked upon.**

**As always enjoy and, if you like it enough, review. Bye!**

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><p>The first look seems like a blur, and there is no time for deep thoughts or many emotions. She's soon unconscious in his arms and even the imp inside him keeps quiet and focused. He allows himself |only one selfish act and that is to carry her alone into his house, knowing Miss Swan would do it far quicker and with less trouble. The hands around her waist feel the contours of her ribs and he fears he may be pressing into an open wound or a bruise, there is no way to know.<p>

The supplies rest beside the only comfortable couch he owns, prepped and ready to be administered. He dismisses the sheriff easily, knowing the girl doesn't really want to be there but feels she should, protecting the weak, helpless girl against the big, bad wolf.

'_Alas, Miss Swan, wrong fairy-tale'_

The house is fairly heated but nonetheless he takes a powder-blue throw and covers Belle, not so much to guard her against the cold but to cover enough of her bruises to placate the part of him that would much rather seek revenge than sit and guard his new treasure. He has checked her temperature, her pulse -relatively normal- and her breathing and now he struggles to find other excuses to brush his fingers against her forehead or the side of her neck. It's been well over twenty-eight years since the last time he has wanted to touch someone and his fingers itch with this uncomfortable and unfamiliar urge.

He hasn't bothered to turn on any lights. He works better in the dark, even in his current human condition, and he wagers the light will hurt her eyes when she finally awakens. The very thought of that occurring soon gives him an unpleasant feeling, and when he suddenly finds himself with nothing to do but sit next to her an wait, his mind wonders to horrible, horrible thoughts. Rational thoughts, but horrible.

He's a deal maker, so he knows everything about wants and needs and their fickle nature. One wants what cannot have, what is not available. One idealizes that which he has lost. Time is the great deceiver, the biggest liar. One's wishes can soon turn to feelings of regret, of getting something to discover it's not how one imagined it would be.

The Belle of his dreams is a glorious creature, and of course she'd have to be to have piqued the interest of an old trickster. Her greatest quality, he had thought once, had been to react to situations in ways that someone as versed in human nature did not predict. She'd laugh at his odd comments, show kindness when he expected indifference, boldness when he wanted fear or, at least, awe. She had approached her deal not as that which had ended her life but an unexpected twist. She had been, indeed, the one to decide her fate. Defiant until the very last minute.

But maybe that Belle is not real. Maybe his mind had created her over the years, because one wants what one cannot have and what-ifs can turn a man's fancy like nothing else. Maybe his Belle, back in the day, had not been as charming, or as witty or as wilful.

And even if she had been nothing guarantees the old Belle would be anything like this Storybrooke one. He can only begin to imagine what the state of a mind imprisoned twenty-eight years would be. And he doesn't dwell in it, mainly because it brings him little joy to contemplate an immediate future where he tries to make this creature be what he remembers she once was. He'd never be able to recreate her. If she wasn't in there, somewhere, she was lost. And losing her twice would be rather cruel, even in his eyes.

He nods off and wakes at dawn. She has tossed and turned some, kicking the blanket away and disturbing the IV he had placed the night before. He resettles everything as it should be and, since he cannot help the itch that now is traveling up his arms, retrieves a bowl with warm rose water and a rag to wash her arms, face and all that her hospital gown doesn't cover. Her hair screams to be washed but all he can do is undo most of the tangles. He fancies Belle will spend days in the bath when she wakes.

'_Goodness knows you have spent days imagining her in the bath' _the imp giggles, roused by so much contact with Belle's skin, contact he has demanded for decades, ranting and raving and tormenting him.

He injects her four times before dinner, and he forces himself to sit down in the dining-room to eat instead of bringing something to the armchair he has spent all day in. But he does not even attempt to go to his bedroom, and kid himself into thinking he is even considering sleeping there. Not even the screaming pain shooting up his leg is enough, though it makes him miss his magic as he settles for a couple of Vicodin.

Something makes him startle awake around midnight, hands holding the arms of the chair so he doesn't fall. At first nothing seems amiss but a closer inspection of the living-room reveals the IV carelessly tossed next to the couch and, alarmingly, no Belle.

Fear grips him painfully by the throat but he breathes deeply, grabs a hold of his cane and swiftly pulls himself up. He can panic later, now he has more pressing issues. Wondering out into the foyer he notices the kitchen light is on, the door ajar. He cautiously steps towards the light, surprisingly stealthy for a man with a limp. He gently pushes the door open and immediately sees her by the sink, her back to him.

"It's not wise for you to be up, dearie" he comments softly, trying not to startle her. Trying and failing since he sees her visibly flinch and quickly turn to face him, a glass of water halfway to her lips and a big carving knife on her other hand, which she quickly points at him. Her eyes, however, take him in greedily and seem pained when she raises the weapon.

They give their eyes a moment to have their fill. Gold, unwillingly up to par with modern culture and expressions, wonders idly if this could be described as "eye-sex", since it certainly feels that way. She looks feral, all her attention exquisitely lavished on him and he enjoys every second, knife and all, specially the way her pupils dilate and her breathing becomes heavy.

The imp tells him that he could dance to the sound of his girl panting.

The moment ends, however, when she breaks it.

"If…" he voice trembles and seems a bit hoarse, but she trudges on "If I asked you…" she sets the glass on the counter and grabs the back of a nearby chair to steady herself "… why you spin so much…" her words are the best thing he's ever heard "…what would you tell me?"

It's difficult to think over the joyous, terrible cackles of the imp inside him. _'Oh, our perfect, perfect girl!'_ he hears in that high-pitched, maniacal voice he once has possessed _'She remembers! She's just as before only better because she's now here, at arm's reach, and so deliciously armed and wild and…'_. The imp, seemingly unable to cope with the gorgeous sight of his woman holding a large knife, dissolves into giggles.

Then he remembers he has a question to answer.

"I like to watch the wheel spin" he whispers, his eyes on his cane "Helps me forget"

The girl lets out a rather adorable squeak but does not lose her concentration or her grip on the knife.

"Forget what?" she asks, titling her head to a side, her look sharp and assessing. He pretends to consider the new question for a few seconds and then furrows his brow, as if stumped.

"… I guess it worked" he arches his eyebrows and gives her a half-smile that makes a full one bloom on her lips, even better than the one he had received long ago for the same reply. The knife clatters to the floor and the hand that had been holding it goes to her forehead. Now all strength seems to be leaving her and she trembles and slouches, but she's happy and cannot stop smiling.

"You remember…" she says, and laughs, and sighs in relief and trembles some more "You remember! I… I wasn't sure… and… I… was afraid" she's talking quickly and haltingly and beginning a thousand sentences she doesn't complete. Suddenly she goes very still, straightens up again and looks at him in the eye "Just so you know I'm very angry at you"

He feels a stab of pain at her words, but it quickly fades as she takes a few steps towards him, delicately places both her arms around his neck and presses her forehead into his shirt, her nose cold through the thin material. The little sigh she lets out once she nuzzles into him makes him feel the most delicious pinpricks all over. Finally she rests her head against his shoulder, her nose and mouth ghosting against the side of his neck and he feels they should stay like that forever. His free arm is around her waist, to make sure she doesn't fall, mind you, and, for the first time, he rests.

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><p><strong>Next Chapter: The Talk. As in: "Hey, Rumple, so nice to see you again... So what the hell is up with this crazy world?"<strong>


	5. Chapter 5: The Talk

**Well, this certainly is NOT finishing my History paper and delivering it, is it? Oh, well...**

**This chapter may feel like a filler but again, these things write themselves so don't look at me. And let me assure you, there are some really interesting developements ahead. They also wrote themselves.**

**Also, this is not a drabble series, damnit. How dare this fanfic get a plot! When did this happen?**

**If you care to, please review. Thanks!**

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><p>He is not sure how they get to the couch, but the sight of the medical supplies on the tea table next to it makes him realize that he needs to be practical and check her over.<p>

'_Oh, yes, checking her over sounds lovely'_ the imp mutters gleefully, his tone making the innuendo impossible to miss but just so he is sure his meaning has come across he adds _'Let's check her all over…'._

He doesn't remember being such a lecherous beast back in the day, though he recalls moments where he had asked Belle to please clean the top of a cabinet while he watched the way her shapely calf gave way to her knee. All her dresses had discouraged any further admiration of the beauty of her legs, though they had been rather more generous when it came to her chest…

But, again, there is no time for anything other than Belle's health so he sits her down in the couch, brings the armchair closer to her, and checks her pulse, her pupils, her temperature. She seems to be familiar with those motions, even the thermometer, and passively allows him to take his time assessing her condition once more. Her skin is a little clammy from her recent exertion but her eyes are clear and bright and her temperature holds steady.

"How do you feel?" he asks while he dabs her arm with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. He doesn't miss the way she eyes the syringe on the table.

"Light-headed, a little, but I've felt like that for a long time" she replies haltingly "A lot less sluggish than usual, thankfully"

Her sharp intake of breath as he picks up the needle is deafening and makes him pause.

"Sorry" she apologizes, her arm relaxing in his hand "I've come to associate needles with bad things"

She offers no further explanation and he knows he's in no state to hear one anyway so he makes quick work of the injection, pleased to notice that she does not shy away from his touch, even if he's doing something she doesn't care for. It implies a level of trust that he never thought she would exhibit around him again.

"Most of the withdrawal symptoms are gone, thankfully. Whatever they kept you under it was not as strong as I first feared. The files I read made your condition seem more severe"

She smiles, not the warm, slow, heart-stopping kind of smile she used to reserve for their 'You're not a monster' conversations but a devilish curl of her left side that he remembers from when she was feeling particularly crafty. If he is not mistaken it's one of the imp's favourite smiles and the little sigh he hears inside him confirms his suspicions.

"Well, I must be a very good actress, then"

His eyes widen a fraction but he quickly berates himself. The Queen, foolish woman, has fatally underestimated his Belle but, apparently, so has he. He matches her smirk with one of his own and they share a smug little moment.

"I've forgotten how resourceful you were" he admits, admiration lacing his voice "I apologize"

"Speaking of forgetting…" she is suddenly shy and drops her gaze to her lap, wringing her hands together "Just how much is it that you haven't… forgotten?"

Clever little thing, his Belle, though he imagines this caution comes more from experience than anything else. He leans back against the armchair and grins.

"I haven't forgotten a thing, dearie. Surely you don't think any curse could get the best of me?" he shakes his head, pretending to be disappointed "Now who's underestimating who?"

She laughs, a sound laced with relief and genuine happiness.

"I apologize, sir" she gives him this adorable look through her lashes "That was never my intention"

This sort of thing reminds him of the time he gave her a flower (not just any flower, but a "formerly-your-superficial-and-freakishly-tall-fiancé" flower) and they had play-acted for a moment at being a gentleman and a lady exchanging pleasantries.

He parts with her only to prepare some tea. He doubts anything solid will settle well in her stomach so he heaps more honey into her cup than normal. He knows she'll like it, he remembers many a night sharing a nightcap before bed and mocking her poor tea preparation. Too much honey and milk, what a way to ruin a perfectly good infusion.

Her next request doesn't surprise him so he informs her he has already placed a change of clothes for her in the bathroom and that, should she need him, he'd be right outside. As tactfully as he knows how he enquires if she needs an explanation about the inner workings of modern plumbing.

"Oh, don't worry. There were showers at the ward and all that. Nothing fancy, but I'd think that the basics are the same"

Still she inspects the claw-foot bathtub and her eyes widen.

"Oh… Well, we had nothing like this back there" she admits "I'm sure this is much lovelier"

He briefly shows her how to fill the tub and what products he has purchased for her, and reminds her to lock the door because it has a bad tendency to open if there is as much as a breeze. He sits by the door, wanting to respect her privacy but uneased be the way she had still trembled when walking, and listens, trying not to translate sounds into pictures. She knows he's there, just outside, and talks about this and that every now and then, complimenting him on the choice of shampoo or mentioning that she hasn't ever had this much hot water to use.

Suddenly there is a loud, thumping noise and a squeak, followed by silence. He's up and knocking before he realizes what he's doing.

"Is everything alright?" he demands to know in a booming voice. He knocks again using his cane. He hears muffled words that sound suspiciously close to things polite, well-bred young ladies back in the day shouldn't know.

"Everything's…" more muffled words and other suspicious noises "Everything's fine. Just slipped a bit, is all"

"Slipped? What do you mean slipped?" he's pretty sure that what he's doing could be labelled shouting but he doesn't care "Belle, open this door"

Her shrill "No!" communicates perfectly her own wishes and desires.

"Open the bloody door" he growls, fighting the urge he has, even after twenty-eight years, to wave the door open with his hand. He has never missed a trifle bit of magic so much.

"Stop shouting!"

He falls silent after that, gripping the tip of his cane with a bit too much force, and waits, ears carefully trained on her every sigh and movement. It takes a while, and it feels forever, but she finally emerges from the bathroom.

"See? There was no need to make a scene. I'm perfectly alright"

He sees that, notices no blood or stiffness in her movement. But he also sees, and he did not expect it, that the sight of her clad in one of his crisp navy blue shirts and almost nothing else- and the shorts almost don't seem to count because, as appropriate as they are in length the shirt covers them completely- affects him more than it should. He's pretty sure at this point that his cane will not survive the evening.

Ah, yes, the image of her all wet hair and rosy skin is going to stay with him forever. The imp nods, and sighs. He seems unusually communicative and wide awake.

"Right, yes" he hides his fluster better now than he did before when he was less man and more creature "I believe it's quite late, dearie, and we could both use a few hours of sleep. Follow me"

The walk to her bedroom takes less than a minute and her comment of "What, no dungeon?" manages to be funny even in light of his recent discovery of where she's been for the past thirty years. It's the proof of a recollection and gestures like this fill him with relief of not being alone with his memories. She's there and she's the only one that's ever counted.

"We'll have us a little talk in the morning, when you're better rested. Good night, my dear. Should you need me I'm right next door"

Right next door and likely wide-awake for the rest of the night.

When morning comes he makes himself wait for her to wake up on her own. By 9 am his patience is rewarded by a soft knock on his door and an enquiry of "Are you decent?". He opens his door, fully dressed and groomed, and scoffs at her.

"Me, dearie? Never"

She laughs in that special way she reserves for his quirky jokes that none finds funny but she. They breakfast in the kitchen, where she watches him cook like a hawk, taking it all in. He approves of her eagerness to learn the ways of this world; it'll help her survive the days to come more than anything else. He fixes her cup of tea like the day before and encourages her to have a few crackers which she nibbles at more for his sake than anything else.

"So" she starts the conversation "Where are we and how did we get here?"

He's prepared for this particular question and, much like Henry explaining the curse to Emma, he describes the events to Belle, adding as much detail as he can and as he dares. There are things he's not ready to tell her, and things he isn't sure he'll ever tell her, like the origin of the curse and its specific trigger. She seems lively and curious and asks all manner of questions he imagines she's wanted to ask since forever. Questions about cars, about radios and television and the town and the people in it, like the waitress Ruby or the spineless psychiatrist Hopper.

"Well, love, your mind is certainly full of questions" he's eyes are focused on a piece of toast he's buttering so he misses the look in her eyes when he calls her that. She recovers quickly and explains her curiosity.

"Some come from my… fake memories. Others from snippets of conversations I've heard over the years"

She tells him of what she has forgotten about her real life and some of the things that appeared in her made-up recollections, though she's forgotten most of them.

"And, about our little deal and your stay with me… How much have you forgotten about it?"

She half-smiles, casting her eyes down to focus on her hands folded gently across her lap.

"Nothing" she confesses, a sort of wistfulness in her tone "Sometimes it was the only thing I could remember. The clearest memories, down to the smells and sounds and…" she catches herself before practically confessing she vividly recalls being in his arms, both the time he had saved her from a rather nasty fall and the time he had shaken her after their kiss…

Oh, not a good idea to bring to mind the kiss.

"Anyway" she coughs, very aware of how red her face must be "Is there a chance I could get some clothes? It's be hardly proper for me to just parade around in your shirts, after all"

And, as much as the imp begs him to let every man in town see her wearing his shirts and jumping to the obvious conclusion, he knows she's right.

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><p><strong>Well, this marks the beginning of a stage I call: "Lets pretend that the last 20 minutes of Skin Deep never happened". There are a lot of unresolved issues but Belle and Gold will try to tiptoe around them so they can enjoy a bit their reunion before they finally sit down to talk for real. It struck me as a thing that could happen.<strong>

**Nex Chapter: The Sheriff.**


	6. Chapter 6: The Sheriff

**A/N: Blown away by the support. I must admit back when I used to write for another fandom, much more established and really vocal, I'd get a lot of reviews and, even though I expected a new fandom and pair to not have that level of reader participation it threw me a bit at first. But then I took notice that all the reviews for this story usually go above and beyond, and you are so warm and point out what you like and it makes each review feel like a hundred. So, in order to thank you, I'll start replying to the reviews to thank you and maybe talk about the story, if there are any doubts, suggestions or enquiries. **

**For all the Emma fans (I like that girl too), she reapears again. As for the name I picked for Belle, I chose Audrey for its meaning (noble strength) and cause you can shorten it to Aud that sounds like Odd and it fits Belle to a T.**

**As usual, if you like and you want, review.**

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><p>They get some facts straight before addressing the issue of clothing, since that would have to be provided by the good sheriff, who had accepted days ago to order some clothing in Belle's size (actually one or two sizes bigger, since she would be putting a few much needed pounds) and have it delivered at her and Miss Blanchard's flat, stating they were some more of her clothes that she had asked to be delivered to her new residence from Boston. But once the sheriff comes questions are going to follow so they get their stories straight, or at least outline a sort of story.<p>

"Well, with the type of medication I've been given I can hardly be expected to remember much about my life here anyway, right? For the time being I can claim to be disoriented so no one asks for specifics" she pauses and a sad look crosses her face, followed by a sad smile "And at least I know the reason they gave for locking me here. We don't have to worry about that"

They have arrived at a point in the conversation that most interests the pawnbroker. He enquires, voice soft and eyes elsewhere, what story the curse had spun about her incarceration. She tells him of her "crazy mother" and her "delusions", pauses to contemplate the irony of calling the truth among the lies so, and, a bit more haltingly, about her father releasing her to the care of the state or, in the case of Storybrooke, the Mayor. It's the first time Maurice, or Moe, has been spoken of. She knows what he wants to ask but makes him work for it.

"So…" he says at last, all pretend-indifference and ease "Was it in any way similar to how it was back then? There usually are clear parallelisms between Storybrooke and our world"

She briefly looks up to catch his eye.

'_There, was it so hard?'_

"In many ways yes. When I returned to my town the people looked at me as if I was a foreigner, or some dangerous creature set lose amongst them. Father could barely touch me, and it wasn't long before the clerics arrived. Horrible people, fanatics" a pause where Belle briefly traces the rim of her cup with a finger "Sometimes all they did was chant and burn some very unpleasant incense. Other times they'd… get physical, trying 'cures' one by one and trying to determine which one seemed to work the best"

She pauses again to take a drink of water and to gauge his temperament. She knows she'll have to tell him the story or he'll never rest until he gets it but hopes she's telling it in a way that makes it as palatable as possible because she's had enough time to come to the conclusion that it was not his fault, what had happened, but he'll likely think so, because he's not all bad inside.

"There were some religious women, and sometimes they talked to me. They didn't approve of the harsher treatments, and kept an eye on the clerics to ensure they remained pious. Finally, one day, they all went away and father informed me he had done for me all he could. He was crying, and yet I felt no sympathy for him. He told me he'd tell everyone I'd died trying to get the evilness out of me, so the town's memory of me would be restored to its former purity and he'd give me over to someone who swore she could help me"

The rest of the story was rather clear, and whatever he wants to ask about her time in the queen's castle can wait for another day. A day when he doesn't feel like exacting vigilante justice on Moe French yet again and landing in jail for the evening. He stares at Belle, face gaunt, covered from head to toe by his shirt and a throw rug and wonders what her body can tell him about her years away from him. He doesn't go down that road because the self-disgust it induces makes his skin crawl.

"What's my name here?" she asks the question partially because she can guess the thoughts lurking inside his head and partially because she is honestly curious.

"Audrey… Audrey French" he replies and, as far as names-picked-out-by-curses go, it isn't a bad one. Gold thinks Snow White got the worst of the lot. Honestly, _Mary Margaret_…

"And yours?" she tilts her head to a side and he notices she seems more interested about his name than hers.

"Mr. Gold. Nothing more, nothing less" she sees he likes that, having no first name, and it doesn't surprise her.

"Well, I wonder how you got the name" she teases. Before he can make an appropriate reply the doorbell rings.

"Ah, Sheriff Swan is nothing if not punctual" he takes one more look at her, trying to see if she seems the very picture of sanity "I guess you'll do"

He doesn't need to linger by her side to know she's scrunching her nose in mock-outrage. Pausing a moment to compose himself – after all the sheriff must not lose the bad opinion she has of the awful Mr Gold, scourge of Storybrooke- he opens the door with a pleasant smile everyone hates.

"Good morning, Sheriff Swan. How nice of you to stop by"

He motions for her to step in, direct her to his living-room and offers her a beverage, which she declines politely. Her attention is mostly focused on Belle, who looks appropriately demure and yet friendly.

"Hi, my name is Emma Swan and I'm the Sheriff of Storybrooke" she offers her hand to Belle and she shakes it "We actually already met before, I don't know if you remember…"

"I recall little of that night, but I'm sorry if I hurt you or your friend. The medications make me wary of people, I'm afraid. I'm sorry I lashed out at you when you did me such a great service"

Her vocabulary, perhaps, is a bit grander than people use this days but she sounds sincere and, this Emma knows, she _is_ sincere. Gold had warned her not to utter lies in front of the sheriff.

"Oh, don't sweat it. I'm just glad to see you're alright"

The sheriff keeps up the charade of polite conversation for a while before getting to the important stuff, asking Belle- well, Audrey- all sorts of questions to gauge her mental health. She makes a funny face at the mention of her last name but makes no comment.

"So you have vague memories of your life before you were committed" she summarizes.

"The drugs made everything fuzzy, and every time they upped the dose the past got blurrier. I have general recollections but I'm missing many of the details"

They talk some more and it's easy to see that Emma wants to help the girl stay out. She may have been forced to break her out but she doesn't regret it.

"The investigation into the irregularities in the mental ward of Storybrooke Hospital is already on-going, and I doubt they'll be eager to lock anyone down without good, solid proof that said person is off-the-charts crazy so I suggest you make an appointment with Dr. Hopper, explain him your case and get him to give a fair assessment of your condition. Seeing as he is the only certified psychiatrist of this town I very much doubt anyone will go against him"

"Done already, Miss Swan. Audrey has her first session with the good doctor in a few days. He'll come here the first couple of times and then, after his initial assessment, we'll see about setting a fixed appointment just so we can ensure no one ever tries to pull a stunt like this again"

The sheriff is not surprised Mr Gold has covered most bases already. He leaves them to talk more because he knows Belle is being her charming self and winning Emma over in ways he'll never be able to. If push ever comes to shove Emma will defend Belle out of friendship and her profound sense of doing what's right and that extra protection puts him more at ease.

He returns from the kitchen with a fresh cup of tea for Belle.

"Honestly, I think I have tea coming out of my ears already"

"You haven't eaten anything solid all day. Drink the damn tea, dearie"

Belle rolls her eyes at the pawnbroker's back and gives Emma a look universally-known amongst women which intends to convey one idea: 'Ugh, _men_...'. The blonde is torn between glee at someone flippantly disrespecting the master of the town and squeakiness at anyone, let alone a pretty young woman, sharing such intimacy with Mr Gold as to be able to make fun of him so lightly.

"So…" _'Okay, Emma, time for the awkward question'_ "You're okay staying with Mr Gold? 'Cause there are other options…"

The brunette furrows her eyebrows at the offering then smiles and shakes her head.

"He's an impossible man" she acknowledges with a nod, reclines further into the armchair she's sitting in and sighs, a smile blooming in her face "I just happen to like impossible men"

The statement is laced with barely an amount of sadness and Emma doesn't pry, feeling like she's the odd-man-out interrupting some sort of freakish domestic bliss Gold and this woman have achieved in a matter of days. She wonders at the story behind it, at the extra layer of complexity it adds to Mr Gold and figures she'll never get very far trying to pry into this. Like that little chipped cup the landlord had spent his brief stint in jail holding and stroking like a safety blanket she imagines this intimacy too Mr Gold will jealously guard, uncaring about what people might think about it.

"Well, here are the clothes I promised. I included other appropriate girly stuff just in case. This should tide you over till you can be out in the open"

She leaves the bags and, after Belle makes her promise she'll apologize to her roommate on her behalf, the sheriff's out the door and it's just the two of them again, the way she's used to. Gold sits down on the couch, a glass of water in his hand, and exhales.

"That went rather well, didn't it?" he comments idly, sipping the drink.

"I like her" Belle smiles, and Gold rolls his eyes.

"You like everyone, my dear"

"You say it like it's some sort of tragic flaw" she gives him this 'I-can-see-right-through-you' look that he remembers seeing often back in the Dark Castle "Admit it, you don't think she's completely hopeless"

"I think that if she's the key to breaking the curse we might as well get comfortable" he snarks "But I guess if you must befriend someone here she's a good choice. It always pays to be in good terms with the sheriff"

She lets him rationalize her sincere wish to be nice and talk some more with Emma Swan, it will make him feel better.

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><p><strong>I like creepedout!Emma too much, methinks. And, to let you in on a secret, the next four chapters are all awesome in my most humble opinion. They build some pretty nice UST.<strong>

**Next Chapter: The Celebration.**


	7. Chapter 7: The Celebration

**A/N: This is the beginning of all that serious amounts of fluff I've been promising for so long. Personally I loved writing this chapter and playing on some very expected Rumbelle scenarios. I also got to write a tiny bit of Regina, which was fun, and score a victory for Emma (and boy does she need one...).**

**I hope you enjoy it and remember, we are getting closer to some rather big events. Please if you read and like, review. Imagine me all alone in my room hitting the refresh button on the review page. It's a lonely, lonely job. I promise to reply as well.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>A few days later, when Archie Hopper comes, Belle has moved on from tea and begun her slow path towards a normal diet. Thankfully the weather is ideal for soups and Gold brings her Granny's "soup of the day" every day without fail, picking it up on the way home from his shop. He forces himself to go every day, lest the soulless mayor suspect anything amiss. She hasn't yet visited the Hospital basement and no one has dared report the breakout so far, out of fear (either for the Queen or himself, he doesn't know).<p>

The good doctor greets the pawnbroker in a nervous, pathetic sort of way, clutching his umbrella like it's a safety blanket. Mr Gold plays the charming host introducing his poor, unfortunate ward and her tale of woe with a simplicity that sells it immediately, if the look of compassion on Hopper is anything to go by. Reluctantly he leaves them alone to mind his shop, stressing before he goes the need for discretion lest Belle- Audrey- be dragged back to the awful place she has managed to escape from (the details about such escape were appropriately ghosted over).

He spends his days at the shop or on the streets, collecting a debt here and making a deal there. The citizens of Storybrooke may comment on the foolishness of striking a deal with him but no one ever seemed to take such warnings to heart when they were in a sticky situation. If anyone sees him more eager when walking home no one comments.

He doesn't mind it the first time he arrives home to find Dr Hopper still chatting with Belle. But his sessions, he's sure, are not supposed to last the whole day. And he's sure the psychiatrist is not supposed to be blushing so much when he looks at his patient, but Belle is blissfully unaware, focusing on the fact that she seems close to leaving the asylum behind for good.

Belle commands his encyclopaedias during the day, shifting from one letter to another with a sort of hunger he recognizes from their previous life, a hunger he encourages now as he had in the past. He delights in her questions because, for some reason, she's the only person he's ever yearned to have a conversation with.

At night, if she's up to it, they watch a documentary or the news on television and when she yawns he's quick to usher her upstairs to her bed. She falls asleep easy but she's a light sleeper and always wakes when he starts pacing inside his room. He's not been sleeping at all, she knows, so she huddles in the dark of her room and sighs when she hears him make his way to the kitchen, then the living room and then to the locked door of her bedroom, where he lingers for a while. It's three o'clock by the time he moves away and, hopefully, falls asleep in his bed.

She takes long naps during the day to make up what sleep she lacks in the night, but she knows he cannot afford the same luxury.

After two weeks of intense therapy sessions, even more intense calling-in of favours and a visit to a rather terrorized judge the situation explodes wide open. Emma Swan enjoys strolling into the main hall of her hospital and demanding in a rather loud voice to see the "Psych Ward" while waving around the search warrant like it's a war banner. By the time Mayor Mills interrupts her little party all pertinent documents have been seized and the three patients there taken to examination rooms to check on their rather poor physical state.

She demands papers she thinks Emma does not have and for once the Sheriff doesn't mind being in cahoots with the ever-powerful Mr Gold.

"It's all been done by the book, Mayor" she tells the enraged politician flippantly "I assure I will get to the bottom of this atrocity. Just leave it all to me"

Regina is quick to get her priorities straight but when she asks for a patient by the name Audrey French she is confronted with the notion that the worst case scenario she could have imagined is now a reality. Emma tells a half-true, half-lie she doesn't regret composing about how someone had found said girl two weeks ago wondering in the night and telling this awful story about being held in inhuman conditions against her will and how that had jump-started the whole investigation. She reassures the rather stunned public servant that said girl was found to be sane and harmless by the town's only qualified person, the lovely Dr Hopper, and that she was recuperating just fine and is more than fit to live a normal, productive life.

"And just who was it that found this poor girl?" the mayor grits through her teeth, knowing the answer. And knowing it's too late and that thirty years of being careful and bidding her time have gone out the window.

Another thing that has changed in the wake of Emma Swan's arrival to Storybrooke. The most important thing, along with the unfortunate episode that had cost her the huntsman.

It takes Regina little time to visit Rumplestiltskin and try to see just how dire the situation is. She enters his pawnshop trying to pretend to be in control of the situation and it makes him smile to see her so.

"Ah, Madame Mayor, long time no see"

He enjoys pretending that they are what the curse has made of them when she knows that never, not even for a second, has he actually believed such a lie. The magic, after all, could recognize both his current master and his old, original one.

She doesn't skirt around the issue, not like she did when she came to his castle to lie to him. Now she's trying to lie once more, but this time she is desperate and he sees it, basks in it. The rage he has left burning in the back of his mind ever since that fateful day in the alley simmers to the surface, begging him to strike. But he has had time to calm down, to be so assured of Belle's return to his side to gain the necessary patience he knows he'll need to adequately exact revenge the all-consuming way he wants.

Meanwhile the mayor talks about how broken his little cleaning girl is, how he's too late to save her, even if he thinks he already has.

"You lost this game a long time, Rumple. You lost it when you chose to believe my lies because, deep down, they made things easy for you. And now you may have her in your grasp, in your arms… Hell, even in your bed, but she's not there, not really. She's gone, forever. I had thirty years to make sure she was. Face it, where she is concerned I have won"

He leans into her personal space the way he knows she loathes and takes his time enunciating his next words:

"We shall see"

When he gets home he brings ice-cream and a nice white wine. Tomorrow Sheriff Swan will come to take Belle around town and he resents the idea like nothing else but knows it must be so. If the townspeople are to know her, better she is presented by someone 'good'. Tonight, however, she's his.

"Emma called" she says in lieu of a greeting, taking the bags he carries to the kitchen "Explained everything that went down at the hospital all in detail, down to the throbbing vein adorning the Queen's forehead. I've never heard anyone sound more gleeful" she pauses, scrunches her face and amends "I mean, other than you"

His shark-like smile, the one that never fails to frighten, spreads across his face and, incongruously, is answered by an amused smile of her own. The imp inside him preens and enjoys her compliment.

'_See?'_ it hisses, content _'She likes me too. It's not just you'_

And it must be true because the more time he spends around her the more the imp takes hold. It never overpowers the man, but is simply content to share the body and the woman. It used to be the other way back in the Dark Castle. The man had been the one trapped inside the imp and Belle had been the one to draw him out more and more.

"What's this?" she's holding the ice-cream container in her hands, curious, and her enquiry pulls him away from his thoughts.

"A treat" he replies "To celebrate the perfect execution of our little plan"

He instructs she put the ice-cream in the freezer and change into whatever clothes she's planning on wearing tomorrow, so he can see before anyone else. The man may be besotted with her, but the imp is possessive and demands little gestures and such from time to time.

'_Blame me all you want'_ it mocks inside his head _'But I'm not the only one who sees her and thinks: Mine, Mine, Mine…' _

Gold shakes his head and turns his attention to making sure the dinner he has brought at Granny's is still warm. He lays the table, uncorks the wine, takes off his suit jacket but leaves the burgundy vest. When he notices he's fidgeting he sits, lest the imp make fun of his eagerness.

"Okay, I'm coming down, but you're not allowed to laugh" her voice comes from somewhere atop the stairs.

"Surely, my dear, it cannot be as bad as that" there is a hint of amusement in his voice that is not very reassuring.

"I think this is how I'm supposed to look, but it's very… different"

"I'd imagine so, dearie. This reality is not particularly fond of ball gowns or petticoats" he reasons, his voice soothing and cajoling now, inviting her down "Dinner is getting awfully cold down here"

Finally he hears her feet on the stairs and, a second later, she's standing in the kitchen, where they've taken most of their dinners. The first thing he notices is the tea dress with the cap sleeves, a shade of dusky rose, the fabric soft and flimsy in layers, giving the apparel a dreamy quality. It is an inch above her knees and gives way to cream-coloured tights and soft brown boots that lace at the front. But he hardly pays attention to such details, his eyes are squarely on her face, which seems to have regained the rosy cheeks and lips he remembered and lost the sickly look and the bags under her eyes.

"Does it look right?" her voice has this breathless quality that does strange, funny things to different parts of him as she gestures to her face and the subtle make-up applied there "Emma suggested it, said the less sick I look the better. I've practiced all day but I still feel a bit like playing dress-up"

His response is rather brusque and lacking the suavity and finesse he has developed over the years but, thankfully, is coherent enough that she smiles in relief and drops the subject, pulling on a creamy wool cardigan, heavy and warm, before seating at what has become her usual spot. As she busies herself unfolding the napkin across her lap the imp makes a rather inappropriate comment about her legs and a far more appropriate one about how no one else in Storybrooke, nay, the whole world, both this one and the other one, should ever see her like that. He begins to try and picture a way to talk her back into the sweats and heavy pullovers she's worn for the past weeks before his common sense makes him dismiss the idea. This is her fitting in. This is _good_.

'_This is torture'_ the imp offers its two cents and the man, whose eyes stray helplessly to the girl's legs as she goes to look for the salt in the top shelf of a cupboard above the sink, agrees wholeheartedly and stabs a piece of carrot with unwarranted viciousness.

By the time they get to desert he thinks he has gotten his self-control blissfully back. It is then he discovers that, for his peace of mind, the ice-cream was a really, really bad idea. She serves them both generous scoops but she waits till he tries it first before tentatively lifting a spoonful to her lips. The moment the ice-cream touches her tongue she closes her eyes and makes some sort of delicious sound between a moan and a sigh.

Gold drops the spoon halfway to his lips and it clatters loudly against the porcelain bowl. The imp wails and keens and, above all, _desires_. And its desires turn into fantasies of sweeping the fine china off the table and making her yearn for the creature and the man as much as they both yearn for her. It's a most frightening power she has over them both and, surprisingly, they love every single terrifying minute of it. For the past thirty or so years they have wanted nothing more than to be at her mercy.

Still, the ice-cream was a bad, bad idea. Horrible.

"This is the best thing I've ever tasted" she's smiling, innocent and fresh and mouth-watering oblivious to her own appeal "What is it?"

"It's called ice-cream. It's a common desert in this world and comes in many flavours" his explanation is succinct, to the point. It's all he can give right now.

"Oh. What's this flavour?"

"Raspberry and cream" he sounds pained now, mostly because he's sure he will never again be able to sample his favourite ice-cream flavour in public.

Never, ever, _ever_.

He offers to clean after dinner is over but she sends him away to his bedroom with a comment about how he's not getting enough sleep. But, as much as he lets her shoo him away, he knows there is no way he'll sleep tonight. Tomorrow Belle goes out into the world and the niggling fear that he'll lose her will make him more tonight than any other night wonder the halls of the house and stare at her bedroom door in a way he doesn't feel particularly proud of.

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><p><strong>Next Chapter: The Town. Belle ventues out into Storybrooke and Gold frets.<strong>


	8. Chapter 8: The Town

**A/N: So here we are again, trying to move the story past Mr Gold's house, as lovely as it is. For those who wanted to see more characters here is some Emma, Ruby and even a bit of Leroy to go around. Gold is in here too, of course, he's just too entertaining to write. Here we have too the explanation as to why Gold cashed in Emma's favour to free Belle when he could have done it himself.**

**Enjoy and remember: reviews make my muse write. It is sad but true.**

**ALSO, A CRY FOR HELP!: In the far future I will need to come up with a first name for Mr Gold. I like it that he doesn't have one but eventually it will get weird if Belle would refer to him in public as "Mr Gold". I am looking for a name starting with R, preferably Scottish or the like, and meaningful. Some that I am considering based on suggestions:**

**Roy: It does mean king, after all.**

**Adam (neither an R name nor Scottish but it means "man" and "The first man" and it was also the name of the original Beast.**

**Raoul (not Scottish, but with a nice sound)**

**And more suggestions? Any opinions? **

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><p>Storybrooke is equal parts fascinating and terrifying. It's a Saturday morning so the diner is quite crowded when Emma takes her there to meet Mary Margaret. Belle for a moment fears she'll call her Snow White. She's all smiles and friendliness and the brunette imagines she can see, deep in her eyes, a strength kept at bay by means of a powerful curse.<p>

"You look so much better" the schoolteacher compliments her when they sit to have something to eat. A tall girl with long hair takes their order and gets a sort of confused look when she spots Belle. She surmises this must be Ruby, and makes a show of recognizing her vaguely, thankful that people in Storybrooke do not like to peruse their memories, lest they discover the puzzling haziness of the curse in their minds. For once the Queen's dark magic works in her favour. About time.

She meets Ashley and her baby, but they don't stay for long and the blonde doesn't seem eager to get to know her at all. Mary Margaret doesn't linger either, since apparently she's not having the easiest time around town. Ruby tells her the whole awful story when Emma goes to patrol for a while and Belle finds her a fountain of useful information and a surprisingly interesting conversationalist when she's not busy "earning her tips" with male customers. The waitress, unlike others, doesn't tiptoe around her, is not afraid to ask questions and to answer when Belle poses some questions of her own.

It is Ruby the one brave enough to bring up the subject of Mr Gold and why on Earth a lovely young woman would ever want to be around such a character. The sheriff faintly scolds the waitress for her rather crude delivery of the question- the words 'arthritic devil' are certainly a bit out of line, Ruby admits- but seems as curious about the answer as the sassy brunette.

"We're friends" Belle declares firmly, even as one of Ruby's eyebrows shoots up "Companions…" more sceptic looks "It's complicated"

And that, Emma can testify, is the bona fide truth.

"Was it complicated… before you got sent away?" the blonde still carries her hero complex around Belle, feeling she owes it to the girl she set free in the big, bad world to see that she stays safe in it.

"Yes" her tone is final, and not because she does not want to give herself away but because she hasn't allowed herself to think too much about her relationship with Rumplestiltskin. She knows the moment will come but she tries to push it away, till the day she's ready to do the brave thing and see if bravery follows once more or not.

"Yeah, well, I'm not about to spend my break chatting away about Gold" Ruby's dismissive tone cuts that particular conversation short and Belle feels more grateful than she can possibly convey.

Archie Hopper appears as Emma is showing her around the main square, pointing out the important buildings like the post office and what appears to be the town's only pharmacy. He has Pongo with him and seems ecstatic to see Belle interacting with the friendly dog. He mutters some shy yet complimentary things about her appearance and then, when he sees Marco waving at him across the street, quickly hurries off.

"I see the good doctor is having a difficult time keeping his professional distance" Emma teases, feeling inside that, as unethical as the thought may seem, it's still miles more palatable than others about Belle's possible love life.

"Archie? He's just a friendly man" she scrunches her nose, shaking her head at the idea "And a bit timid"

Emma promptly drops the subject, moving on to some city regulations, a friendly advice about being careful not to lose her way in the woods and some other important information. Belle's years of survival experience urge her to listen, to soak up all the sheriff offers, but she gets distracted watching the diner, where Ruby seems to be having a spat with her grandmother. They look wretched but don't seem to be able to stop shouting and none of the costumers around them seem to mind.

"Oh, yeah, so the shouting match got your attention, huh?" the blonde follows her gaze "It's been that way since forever, or at least that's what Mary Margaret says"

They round a corner and Belle stops dead when she spies Grumpy, who she knows she isn't supposed to know here, a few feet away, elbowing a man in a lab coat – Sneezy!- out of his way.

"Hey, Leroy! What have I told you about being a people person?"

The sheriff flashes her badge in a casual motion and the surly man lifts his hands in a mock gesture of innocence.

"I'm a good little boy, Miss Swan. You can ask my anger management councillor. That guy loves me"

Emma introduces her to Leroy, but he barely spares her a glance before walking away.

"That guy just loves trouble. I don't think I've ever seen him look anything other than angry. I know only one or two people who bother talking to him anymore"

"Really?" Belle's voice comes out thick and unsteady "That's too bad"

No, too bad is an understatement. Too bad doesn't begin to cover just how wrong is to picture Grumpy without Doc or Sleepy, trying to pretend he's a lone wolf when he's got his pack of friends all around him.

And, all of a sudden, Belle wants to go home because Storybrooke has ceased being fascinating and has begun to feel just like when she was back in her cell, trapped with the darkness, chocking on it. She glances around and notices just how grey and washed-out everything looks. Emma's hair seems horribly vibrant in contrast and such a sight calms her a bit, but not enough to make her stay out.

"I…" _'Get it together, Belle, or you'll go back to being medicated' _"I feel very tired, I'm sorry. Can we cut the tour short?"

Her request is met with an understanding look and a promise they'll try it again in a few days, when she feels better. The sheriff drives her the short distance to Mr Gold's house and she forces herself not to run up the steps and to wave goodbye from the front door. Once she's safely in, though, she drops in the first armchair she sees and curls into a ball, fighting back a recollection of going camping with Ruby- _'It didn't happen, it didn't happen'_- and helping her father sort out the flower deliveries- _'Your father dressed in velvet and damask, not coarse wool and cheap cotton'_. She's much more lucid than the last time she battled the curse but somehow the curse seems stronger out there than in her little cell.

'_It's not possible, not possible. How can it be worse?'_

She stays strong, rocking herself alone, recounting real episodes from her childhood, rationalizing that what she's feeling is magic and that she has fought it away for thirty years and it will not get her now, not when she knows the end is near, around the corner, and soon she will not have to be strong anymore, fight for every scrap of herself.

The curse finally stops pushing, content to have taken some memories of her mother and a few other bits and pieces. It leaves her alone, exhausted, and feeling like she has taken some giant step back. She slumps against an armrest, her lids heavy and a name on her lips she cannot quite get out.

When he finds her he doesn't immediately sense anything wrong and when he sees her asleep in the living-room his first thought is that the good sheriff has forgotten Belle's rather frail physical condition and dragged the girl all over town. It is when he makes contact with her skin that he gets a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. She's cold and clammy and her hair smells spicy and bitter. He recognizes the smell right away, since most of Storybrooke, and the mayor's house in particular, smell a bit like that.

The curse.

"Belle" he shakes her shoulder before grabbing the back of her head and peering into her heavy-lidded eyes "Look at me"

She appears to half-hear him and feels far too tired to try and comply. When he lifts her off the armchair and lays her on the couch, her head in his lap and his fingers in her hair, she wants the numbness to go away because this is the closest she's ever gotten to Rumplestiltskin, kiss notwithstanding, and she wants to commit every little detail to memory. Soon she feels far less foggy and her nerve-endings hum to life under the man's ministrations. The way he's massaging her scalp feels nice at first, but the sensations soon escalate to uncomfortably-pleasant levels. Belle recognizes the feeling, the urge burrowing deep within her, because she remembers feeling it before, whenever gold skin would brush against her or a leather-clad body would suddenly materialize right behind her, close enough to feel without touch. This, however, feels a hundred times worse- _'Better'_, a voice keens inside her that Belle can hardly recognize as her own _'A hundred times better'_- and she struggles to remember that she's supposed to be feeling wretched. She certainly hopes that he'll think her laboured breathing is due mostly to her fragile condition.

"Better?" his voice is rough and low and goes straight to parts of her she'd rather not think about.

"Yes" the word is a sigh, and a truth, and a lie. She wants to tell him to stop touching her, and at the same time to never, ever stop. She feels the need to talk bubbling up and, no longer as brave as she once was, pushes it down, tries to think about something else "I cannot remember my mother's face, though. Or the name of my childhood nurse"

That sobers her up instantly. He stops petting her hair, satisfied he has removed all traces of the dark magic away.

"It'll came back, my dear, never you worry" he soothes, sounding strong and sure.

"I was stronger this time, but so was the curse. I've never felt it like that before"

"You never had so much of Regina's attention lavished upon you, I'd wager. The people she has her eye on are the ones that suffer the most"

A coy half-smile makes its way to her face.

"Lucky me"

She sits up but almost immediately curls beside him on the couch. They switch on the TV to pretend to watch it for a while, and make polite conversation about Belle's first outing into Storybrooke.

"There is something awful in this place" she whispers, her head on his shoulder and her eyes unfocused "And it's unnerving, knowing things are not supposed to be like this, seeing all this people trapped, different"

"Different how, love? Did you meet someone you used to know?"

He's afraid she encountered her father, but if such had been the case he's pretty sure he would have been called out for assaulting him already.

"Yes. A dwarf I befriended… after we parted ways" her tone acquires that cautious lilt he now recognizes "He's unhappy. Everyone's unhappy and I don't think they even know why"

Gold understands, though he imagines he doesn't care half as much as she does.

"Well, then let us hope Miss Swan lives to our expectations of her. If any change can happen in Storybrooke, it has to happen through her. She's the key. Otherwise it never lasts"

When she goes out again she's able to control it better. The town remains depressing and dreary but the first glimpses of change- the gleaming clock of the square seems to shine and the hair of a girl she passes by once is a bright shade of strawberry blonde- keep her spirits up. Still, whenever she's ready to call it a day, she takes a detour to the pawnshop and Rumplestiltskin leaves whatever he's doing at the moment to sit in the back of the shop for a while. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don't, but they always touch. He knows she'll build a tolerance soon enough and realize she no longer needs his particular brand of protection but, like many unresolved issues between them, he never mentions it.

He is, after all, a coward.

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><p><strong>Next Chapter: The Rumours. Storybrooke specutales on the relationship between the pretty new thing in town and her dark benefactor. He doesn't take it kindly.<strong>


	9. Chapter 9: The Rumours

**A/N: Just one chapter away from the chapter that will make or break this fanfic. I'm really nervous about it, specially since I love it soooo much...!**

**I hope you like this chapter, I confess I might have had too much fun with violent!Gold. Be warned.**

**And please if you like it, review. As much as I would like to say reviews are not necessary the truth is that they are great motivators for any writer, particularly when the first wind is over and you try to seek a second one.**

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><p>Belle is the one to suggest she help him at the store and all he does is try not to appear too eager when he agrees. It's not the only employment she finds. The town's teeny-tiny library is only too happy to have her assist in its reopening, since no one actually remembers it ever being functional. The thing she loves the most about that arrangement, other than the freedom to pay her way and the inordinate amount of new literature at her disposition, is that the library is located in a prime area of town, under the recently-repaired main square clock, and it gives her a good view of the comings and goings of everyone around Storybrooke.<p>

Part of her, the part that survived thirty years around the Queen, thinks this will be useful for strategic purposes. City Hall is only a window away, and the offices of The Mirror are also within viewing distance. The Sheriff's Office is pleasantly nearby and she tries hard to bump into Emma from time to time, pleased to noticed the blonde doesn't seem to mind.

But not everything is guile and surviving. Belle wants to get to know others, wants to soak up as much about this new way of living and these people as she can. She's always been friendly, though all she remembers growing up is the gilded cage his father kept her in on account of the threat of ogres, and the need to instil good manners and proper bearing in his only daughter. No servant would talk more than two words with her, no village girl would approach her. She had grown used to books and her father's advisors, and even they considered her odd. She had always been loved and admired… at a distance. Too noble for some, too beautiful for others. Too strange for everyone, with her particular ideas about what women could do if given the chance.

Alone.

She had made solitude a happy way of life, no use crying over things she'd never change. And when Gaston had appeared she had resented all his attention that took her away from the things she truly felt interested in. He'd take her freedom away and her ideas of traveling and actually accomplishing things other than marry and bear children. She'd never been asked her consent, or consulted as to anything. And when Rumplestiltskin had come along, and offered a deal, she'd relished the idea of choosing, of having a say.

So now when she goes to the library she looks for more than books. But this new world doesn't seem to want her any more than the other. No harm in trying, though.

The time she spends at the pawnshop is much more than the one she spends elsewhere. She liked it the minute she saw it, mainly because it held within objects she remembers crystal clear and because it seems more Rumplestiltskin's type than the old Queen Anne house they share.

She doesn't even really offer to clean, merely steps in one day, fishes out the appropriate cleaning equipment and begins to work on a shelf without saying anything at all. Mr Gold doesn't dare breathe a word lest he somehow dissuade her. But he cannot help himself from clarifying:

"You don't have to do that, my dear"

She takes her eyes away from the shelf to look at him, puzzled.

"I know" she sighs "But if I leave this dust lying around it'll get to your lungs, you'll get sick, die and then I'll have to help Emma Swan save our world all by myself and it'll take me twice the time"

She sighs again, melodramatically, and the imp inside bursts into raucous laughter. All Gold allows himself is a half-smile.

"What a pragmatic mind you have, dearie"

Her reply is a shooing motion with the rag she's using for wiping and a stern look.

"And don't even think about nailing anything down"

His whole skin prickles at the memory the comment elicits. His smile tries to turn innocent and it fails miserably.

"Wouldn't dream of it, poppet"

'_Liar, liar'_

They establish a routine of sorts, full of holes they do not dare touch upon, like the discussions they refuse to have with one another, things that go unspoken and unresolved. They find less and less reasons to skirt around each other but they do it anyway. After thirty years apart they are willing to play a game of pretend for a while and simply enjoy each other.

She convinces him one day to take a well-deserved lunch break and visit her quaint little book-filled nook at the town square. She wraps her arms loosely around his cane-less arm before they set off and no amount of subtle hints will make her keep her distance. The imp screams at him to stop trying to shake her off but the man is adamant.

"My dear" he finally says, trying to keep his tone light "What will the townspeople think to see such a lovely girl so intimately pressed against an old cod like myself?"

She scoffs at his description of himself and only tightens her grip on him, ever the brave adventurer.

"They'll think whatever they want, I'd imagine" she replies flippantly "People always do. It cannot be helped"

Her swift dismissal of his gentlemanly worries does not really surprise him. His girl is far too independent to be cowed by the unfounded opinions of others. And as soon as the remnants of his tattered conscience feel he has done his duty and warned the fair maiden against the possible taint of scandal he snakes the arm she holds close around her waist till she's flush against him, till the imp stops screaming and merely burrows close against her, sated for a time.

The look she gives him is coy and reminds him of when she used to sit atop his majestic dining-room table and carefully probe him with questions and tease him slightly, unafraid of poking the sleeping beast.

"Well, dearie, if people will talk we might as well give them a reason to"

Her laugh is sudden and loud and people on the street turn to watch the girl in the cream coat and the devil in black walk casually down the main street, heads bent down and talking in low tones, sharing smiles and an intimacy no one believes Mr Gold has any right to. The pawnbroker can only imagine the furious whisperings that their disappearance into the little library must elicit but his beauty seems even more oblivious the more people stare, the more obvious their judgement is. Even Ruby, who is not about to take the moral high ground with anyone, cannot help but raise her eyebrows when they come into the diner and sit in a secluded little corner, heads slightly bent to guarantee even more privacy. When Mr Gold laughs at something the brunette says half the diner startles in surprise.

"Well, some things you have to see to believe" her grandmother barks beside the waitress, shaking her head at the sight. Ruby bites her lip.

"I don't know, grams, I think that if I squint my eyes and tilt my head Mr Gold might look sort of happy for a change" her defence of the couple is weak, but there.

"You confuse smug with happy, Ruby" the old lady huffs "I was always very glad that you never stooped so low"

It is the first of many outings, and by the time the routine is firmly in place the deal maker has stopped fighting her for the sake of her honour and good reputation, figuring he's never been good at doing the right thing anyway.

And though he admires Belle's ability to be unfazed by the gossip and the aloofness with which everyone in Storybrooke deems to treat her- in the back of his mind he recalls rumours in a far-away land of a lady so beautiful and yet so strange the villagers shake their heads and warn their children to keep a distance and their men to beware- his nature does not find the situation acceptable at all. He pushes the darkness in him down, focuses it on the greater task at hand, the curse-breaking and the revenge-enacting he has worked for his entire Storybrooke life, but the breaking point comes, as it always does, unexpectedly.

A rather chilly Friday afternoon finds him struggling to get his car into the only gas station in Storybrooke, the two front tires in desperate need of some air. Billy rushes over to greet him, excited to tend to the only imported car in town, and his three co-workers too stop and stare at the shining European beauty with barely-concealed jealousy. Their eyes soon turn from the flawless Jag to its driver and they elbow each other in very unsubtle ways, throwing around some comments Gold is sure he's better off not hearing. But the boys are young and raucous and soon their voices carry in the wind, snippets of conversation reaching his ears almost against his will.

"… thought the old dog had it in him…"

"… can't see how she can stomach it…"

"… sure there are some perk's to being the old man's…"

"… pity, really, she's got a mouth that you can tell is made for…"

The snippets are accompanied by whistles and guffaws, and so preoccupied are the men in overalls elbowing and slapping each other on the back that they barely notice the sound the pawnbroker's cane makes on the ground. They are alerted to his presence only when Billy, clueless and tactless Billy, comes up to tell Mr Gold that he's done. He collects the money with a goofy smile and, unaware of the sudden tension in the air and the terrorized looks his friends are giving him, hands him the change with a wink.

"All done, Mr Gold, you're ready to go" a knowing grin spreads across the kid's face "I imagine you must be very eager to get back to your…"

Whatever he's going to say next doesn't quite make it out of his mouth. At first the boy doesn't know where the pain comes from but soon his brain processes that Mr Gold has crushed his left foot beneath his cane and _Dear Lord_, it shouldn't hurt so much for an old man to do that. He tries to move his foot away but he cannot shake the long-haired businessman no matter how much he struggles. His friends freeze around him, telling themselves that they do not help Billy because their families, like everyone else's in Storybrooke, are indebted to Gold and they don't want to get them in trouble. It is not as if they are all afraid of an old cripple and his goddam walking stick.

Of course not.

"Well, boys, it seems we'll have to do this the hard way" the shopkeeper's accent is thick and unpleasant, and everyone is suddenly reminded of Moe French and just how bloody the nurses at the hospital said he had looked "I have never much cared for gossip, I know what people think of me and chose to ignore it because I am not a good man, so I do not expect to have a good reputation"

He pauses to dig the cane deeper into Billy's foot and the mechanic is pretty sure he can hear something break. Mr Gold smiles and it is a truly frightening sight. The poor boy looks left and right at his friends but none make eye contact, or move to help him. They are all young and fit, taller than the pawnbroker and yet all they can do at the moment is try to control their trembling.

'_Mm, what a sight for sore eyes this fear is'_ the imp relishes in the current scenario and in the fact that the man is one hundred per cent in agreement with him.

"But Miss French is the very picture of innocence and good breeding, an honest young lady who does not deserve to be scorned for committing the unpardonable sin of being kind and friendly to even the blackest of souls" the shopkeeper leans on the cane and Billy cannot help the howl of pain that follows "So, from this day on, I trust you'll remember that it is not nice to sully a young woman's reputation with baseless speculation. Have I made myself clear?"

It takes a while for Billy to catch onto the fact that he's supposed to answer. He feels the cane dig even deeper into his foot and twist viciously as punishment for his prolonged silence so he finally lets out a squeaky 'Yes' that in any other situation would be most embarrassing.

"There's a good lad" Gold throws the change he had been given to the floor by the boy's feet and smiles "Keep the change"

Finally he releases the boy, directs one last look at the others and calmly heads back to his car, satisfied in the knowledge that his little stunt will soon be public knowledge and, though this would certainly not prevent people from gossiping, it would certainly keep people from ever letting Belle hear them.

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><p><strong>Next Chapter: The Confrontation.<strong>


	10. Chapter 10: The Confrontation

**A/N: I'm weak. I saw close to 15 reviews for one chapter and decided that I needed to post this as soon as possible. I cannot wait any longer to see if I'd ruined this fanfic beyond all salvation or if I've pulled it off somehow. I'm so nervous I'll likely spend all of today either hiding from my computer or eagerly pressing the refresh button to see if I have any new reviews... Oh, the torments of writing fanfiction!**

**I wanted to thank to everyone who review, both the usual suspects and the new additions. I'll probably not update till the middle of next week, but I wanted you to have this chapter as soon as possible. Also it is extra long so yay!**

**As usualy if you like and want to, review. And enjoy!**

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><p>The harsh days of winter begin to gentle, but the days remain painfully cold despite how near spring seems to be. Belle finishes sorting a rather tricky section of the library, cataloguing like there is no tomorrow, and wishes for the first time in her life never to see a book again, ever. Such an incongruous thought makes her decide that, perhaps, she's worked enough and maybe she should go out and stretch her legs.<p>

She doesn't go to Granny's because it's early afternoon and Ruby's grandmother is always there at such a time and the looks she gives her make her more than a bit angry. Passing by the sheriff's office she sees Emma's police car parked and ducks into the building, noticing it is rather quiet inside. It is a small town, after all, but strange and dramatic things are always happening around Storybrooke. Peace is a rarity.

"Emma?" Belle's voice is muffled by the scarf around her neck, but the silence is so deafening inside the sheriff's office that the blonde can hear her quite clearly "Are you busy?"

Snow White's daughter raises her eyebrows from her place atop her desk and gestures with her arms at the empty room.

"Swamped" she snarks, her smile friendly but her eyes tired. This, Belle knows, must be her first free minute in days, ever since Kathryn Nolan's disappearance. Though Mary Margaret is not an official suspect yet things are still strained between the two friends on account of Emma's enquiries into David Nolan's whereabouts around the time of the disappearance and the brunette can only imagine how stressful that must make their living together.

"Oh, well, I don't suppose that you'll grant me a few minutes of your time in exchange for these?"

She brings out a Tupperware full of financers. The blonde squints, unsure of what they are. Belle laughs.

"These are financers, small, moist almond teacakes. It's a French delicacy"

Or at least that is what she had found out about financers here. Though Belle hadn't been by any means acquainted with house chores when Rumplestiltskin had come for her she had been well-versed in baking, since the palace's baker, an old, temperamental man, had taken an unsuspecting shine to the little princess who would come to the kitchens in search of warmth, stories and a few pastries. In time Belle had convinced the poor cook to allow her to help and had taught her all that there was to know about the local pride, the art of pastries. His lessons had been dotted with amazing stories of his travels and had entertained Belle like nothing else. Even Rumplestiltskin had demonstrated affinity for her madeleines back in the day, going so far as to not comment on her otherwise rather atrocious cooking.

"Mm, well, they are not donuts, but I guess they'll do. I'm all about trying new things, anyway"

The look Emma is giving to the teacakes is one of hilarious mistrust and Belle finds it too funny to feel offended. But as soon as she tries one the sheriff changes her tune.

"Oh my God. This is like baked heaven" she gobbles down the rest of the treat at surprising speed and reaches for another before gesturing for Belle to sit "Okay, you may bask in my presence for a while. What's up?"

They chitchat about frivolous things like the awful weather and the lack of any actual form of entertainment in town. Such innocuous topics of conversation shouldn't lead them to any serious subjects but, surprisingly, Emma finds herself asking Belle if she's spoken to her father ever since… re-entering the real world.

"It's… complicated" the brunette looks at her hands folded across her lap "Talking is not a possibility at the moment"

And it's not, because the things Belle would like to discuss with her father he doesn't remember. Emma, however, misunderstands.

"Is this because of what Gold did to him? 'Cause I could understand, I mean, it was pretty brutal so I can only imagine what the story between them must be, particularly taking into account the things he said about you…"

The sheriff pauses when she spots Belle's confused and pale face. It sinks in that the girl has no idea what she is talking about. No one told her about the beating, even though it was all the townspeople could talk about for days. She curses aloud, tries to backpedal but soon enough she's blurting out everything about the awful mess, including the mayor's visit to Gold in the cell and the chipped teacup that she had left behind. Belle grows serious and listens patiently with an odd look on her face and only reacts when Emma mentions the teacup, inhaling sharply. Finally the tale comes to an end and the blonde is glad to be able to shut up. The silence seems to stretch and grow ever more uncomfortable till the librarian breaks it.

"How… How long ago was this?"

Emma fidgets, but answers.

"A couple of weeks before Mr Gold came to collect the favour I owed him by removing you from the psych ward"

The look Belle gives her tells the sheriff she's said another thing she shouldn't have but cannot tell what exactly. Thankfully the brunette spells it out for her.

"A favour? You owed Mr Gold a favour?"

"Yeah, we made a deal a while ago, before I was sheriff…" Emma swears she wants to stop talking but can't and, out of nowhere, another story spills out, the one about Ashley and the baby and the elections for the new town sheriff. Finally she stops again; sure she has told Belle practically everything that has happened to her since coming to Storybrooke. Her friend has a strange, guarded look on her face that she imagines hides some pretty heavy inner turmoil.

"I… I have to go"

Emma doesn't dream of stopping her, not even when she realizes Belle- well, Audrey for her- has left her coat in the coatrack.

When the librarian finally makes it to the pawnshop she hardly notices she's shivering. She pushes the door open with unnecessary strength, the bell jingling in protest.

"Do be mindful of the bell, my dear"

Mr Gold is, thankfully, alone, his hands busy tinkering with an old clock she thinks she remembers. He takes his time before he looks up but the moment he does so he knows something is wrong. At first he only sees her shivering form and blue lips and her lack of care angers him.

"For Heaven's sake, woman" he rounds the counter, his left arm stretching out to touch her but she pulls away. The rejection makes the pawnbroker go stiff and defensive. He doesn't move but rather stares her down, making himself as tall and imposing as he can. But Belle is having none of it.

"You know the conversation we've been avoiding ever since we were reunited? The one that we are so afraid to have that we push it back and pretend it's not there?" her voice is harsh and he doesn't know whether she's mad at herself or him. She drops her satchel on the floor, in a careless gesture very unlike her "Well, we're going to have that conversation… Right now"

The tension in the air is thick and unpleasant but neither person deigns to acknowledge it. The pawnbroker smiles tightly and spreads his hands in agreement.

"Very well, dearie, where do you wish to start?"

"Well, we could begin with an in-depth discussion about why you assaulted my father" Belle doesn't look at him in the eyes but slips past his side, her fingers idly trailing the top of the counter "But I am ashamed to say that does not rank high in the list of topics I desperately wish to discuss with you. I guess this makes me a bad daughter" she pauses, sighs "I love you"

He whirls around, eyes wide, jaw set and shock in his face. The way she's spoken the words is harsh and soft at the same time. She catches his eye then, finally, and he sees strength and determination… and resentment.

"I love you and please, let us start this conversation acknowledging that we both know that to be the truth. You told my father as much when you beat him in punishment for your sins" _'You had her love and you shut her out…'_ "I love you and you love me"

He arches and eyebrow, showing none of his inner turmoil or the fact that the only thing keeping him upright is his cane.

"And what makes you so sure, my dear?"

Belle rolls her eyes, huffing.

"It's called _'True Love's Kiss'_ for a reason, Rumplestiltskin. You're a being of wisdom and magic, you know the truth that lies beyond such a phenomenon"

"You say that with such conviction, yet it has taken you weeks to broach the subject. Clearly there were doubts. And, let's not forget that you left, once upon a time" his lips curl in an ugly smirk and Belle's right hand itches to slap it away.

"Not about that. I didn't leave so long ago because I was unsure of your love for me or mine for you. I left because I thought you were too scared to face the truth so you made yourself doubt it because it was safer to think that you'd chose your power over me than to recognize that what I offered was real"

Her eyes are watering like they did long ago but she does not cry. Her voice cracks and she _does not cry_. She trembles, though, and Gold finds himself torn between shaking her and holding her. Neither option is safe, since they both require he touch her.

"And what has changed, pray tell? Something has, at least in your eyes"

She struggles to get her thoughts in order and find words in which to convey her feelings. She wants him to understand why she hurts.

"It was one thing when I thought you had fooled yourself into believing I did not love you and you did not love me, even though deep inside you knew you were wrong. But now I know you never thought I didn't love you, yet you pushed me away. You knew what it'd do to me…" her voice cracks worse than before and still no tears "But you made the choice for the both of us. Whatever suited you the best and to hell with my feelings, with my insecurities and pains and…"

She doesn't want to remember those days after their last encounter in the dungeons, where she had felt empty and unable to breathe and the world had been grey and lifeless. The pain had muted, over the years, to a dull throb, but it had been there till the moment she had seen him again, and even now it makes its presence known inside her heart.

"It's not your power you care for more than me, it's your own safety" her anger bleeds into her voice, making it dark and painful "You kept the chipped cup, you traded a favour from the one who holds all the power in Storybrooke to get me out from under the Queen's clutches… There is no way you could have done all that without facing the truth. It's me… You love me, but you don't trust me, or care for my feelings. You would have said something otherwise by now. You still prefer your own comfort to anything else"

The shopkeeper's breath comes out in harsh pants and he's trembling, rage etched across his face. He looks like a caged dragon ready to breathe fire and burn his attacker to ashes.

"What do you want from me?" when he finally speaks his voice is a whisper, his hands gripping his cane till his knuckles turn white and the metal beneath his fingers bends.

"The truth. I deserve it. Not for the Queen or my father, they are the ones to blame for their actions. Whatever happened to me when I was under their mercy is their fault and mine… I should have been wiser, or quicker or cleverer" for a moment Gold thinks of passionately opposing her words, for she's not to blame, but the urge passes "So I don't want your guilt or your pity… I want the truth. The truth you'll admit to my father, to the Queen, even to a stranger such as the Sheriff. The truth I should have heard before anyone else"

She takes a few steps till she's but a breath away, and if either of them notices how they are mirroring the last discussion they had about the same subject they don't acknowledge it. She looks unwaveringly into his eyes, and his face twists into a familiar look of contempt. Minutes pass and Belle forces herself to realize that he's not going to hear what she wants. She lets out a quivering sigh, casts her eyes down and retrieves her satchel from the floor.

"I see" her tone is resigned, flat "So this is how it's going to be" she stuffs some books she has lying randomly around inside her bag and takes a deep breath, resting her hand on the handle of the entrance door "I'll get some things from the house and get a room at Granny's. Lord knows that woman doesn't like me but she needs the money and won't turn away…"

She's startled when the door she's barely open slams shut. She doesn't turn, not even when his arms trap her between the door and his chest. She's not afraid, never of him. She is, however, deeply wary of her body's reaction to his nearness and the easiness with which it betrays her.

"You wretched girl" he rasps out, his mouth so near her she can feel the words burning the back of her neck. His forehead comes to rest between her shoulder blades and he lets out a hoarse, derisive laugh "I love you"

The words break the tension in the room and Belle sags forward, resting against the door, Gold pressing his body against her back. His head moves to rest atop her right shoulder, pushing her hair out of the way so he can nuzzle against her neck. His breathing is still ragged and the arms pressed to the door are shaking, but it doesn't stop him from skimming his lips against the spot where her shoulder meets her neck and she gasps, tilting her head to the side in an age-old gesture of surrender. And even so the imp and the man both know she is the one with the power in the room.

"I love you" his voice is a growl that does things to her no voice should be able to. His right hand ghosts over her upper arm and takes her hand to make her twirl around. Her eyes are glassy and dark, pupils dilated, and mirroring his own in many, many ways. He takes her chin, idly tipping her head up "I love you"

His leg screams in protest and only then he realizes he's dropped his cane eons ago. He fights against the pain but finally begins to slump. Belle catches him by the waist and, as much as his pride stings, he welcomes the soft feel of her as she guides him to a nearby stool, letting him collapse atop it and take her with him. Her mouth presses against the base of his throat in a gesture she hopes is soothing and he finds uncomfortably erotic. The imp shudders inside, and the man grabs her by the shoulders, wanting to pull her closer and shove her away.

"I love you"

No other words will pass his lips, no matter how much he tries to say anything else. Belle laughs, a husky, womanly sound that makes the imp inhale sharply.

'_Oh… Make her do that again'_ it implores in an eager rumble. The man shushes it, straightening his spine and collecting his thoughts. A hand rakes through his long hair, pushing it away from his face.

"It took thirty years to say it and now I don't seem to be able to stop" his tone is self-deprecating but lighter than it has ever been "What strange spell have you weaved over me, you shameless nymph?"

His hands leave her shoulders and his hair to settle on her hips, drawing her close. He has the look of a predator now, sleek and limber, perched on the stool as if ready to pounce. There's a lazy smile on his lips that does not match the hunger in his eyes. Belle finds herself feeling deliciously apprehensive.

"Spell?" she manages to choke out, trying to appear coy and not flustered "That is your dominion, trickster, not mine. I'm but an innocent maiden…"

He laughs again, unable to stop himself and all the while his right hand leaves her hip to rest on the centre of her back, drawing her close only to then continue up, tangling in her hair.

"Innocent maiden my foot" he purrs, tilting his head to a side and relishing in the sight of her leaning close "Shall I prove it to you?"

"Yes…" her voice is a breathless plea and he wonders for a moment how they have gone from unbearable pain to delirious bliss before he covers the scant distance between them, pressing their lips together. There is none of the hesitation and wonder that they had experienced on their previous kiss. This is much different, languid and urgent at the same time. Her hands snake around his shoulders and she sinks one into his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp as her other hand clutches his shoulder. Her movements are artless and the involuntary arching of her back only endears her to him all the more. Both his hands move to some place between her hips and shoulder-blades, grabbing handfuls of her shirt in an effort to pull her as close to him as he can. When she parts her lips in an experimental gesture he's quick to slip his tongue into her mouth and coax her own to join in.

He doesn't remember a kiss feeling this good. Admittedly, he's had little experience with them. His first and only marriage was not one of passion and what he remembers most is feeling disappointing and useless, both as a provider and as a lover. But now this beauty, _his _beauty, leans against him, as if boneless, unable and unwilling to keep herself from voicing aloud her approval of his ministrations and all he thinks about is devouring her whole. He's savage and gentle with her and both approaches seem to thrill her, making her moan and sigh and keen in a way that fills him with a kind of liquid fire he confuses for magic for a minute.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips across her jaw and past her neck to reach her collarbone, his tongue darting out to trace her clavicle worshipfully, one of his hands skimming her side to cup her breast through the many layers of clothing she's regrettably wearing. She shudders and gasps, pressing his head closer to her skin and a voice in the back of his head warns him that this is too much, too soon.

'_No!'_ the imp wails _'You can't stop! __**I want her**__!'_

But he does. He presses his forehead against her collarbone, lowers his hands to her waist and takes a deep breath, hearing her do the same. He feels her hands in his hair, petting it, and allows himself a moment to calm down.

'_Let me out!'_ the screams of the imp deafen him temporarily, its lust burning in his veins and simmering in his fingertips, mixing with his own heady desire _'Let me have her! She's mine!'_

'No' Gold thinks, smirking 'She's _ours_'

"That was…" Belle's voice is dreamy, lethargic and it pulls the pawnbroker away from his inner debate. She looks for a proper adjective but can only come up with a sigh so she falls silent once more. The pawnbroker smiles against the skin of her chest, his hands drawing shapes against her hips and lower back, feeling her shudder every once in a while with a sort of satisfied glee he has seldom felt before, even after striking a rather impressive deal.

"My little Belle… speechless?" he teases, the words dark and possessive as he whispers them against her "That is quite a compliment"

She swats him with her left arm, or tries to. Her body doesn't seem to want to cooperate, content to settle against his for the moment. She reasons they will eventually have to move but she cannot muster enough strength in her to care. There is no rush, after all. They have all the time in the world.

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><p><strong>Next Chapter: The Leap... A poetic way in which to convey Belle and Gold keep getting it on.<strong>


	11. Chapter 11: The Leap

**A/N: This chapter is me not even attempting to move the plot forward, as it should always be. After this bit of fluff I might have to tone it down, there are lots of other ideas to explore that do not necessarily need a Rumbelle make-out session (though everything can always only be improved with such an addition and I will try.**

**It is possible that in the future the rating of this fic might go up to M. Yes, I might have been persuaded to write my first ever smut, possibly after reading your lovely demans for porn and some really "inspirational" fanfics in Once Upon a Time's kink meme... Not that I would know the address to that. Or have it in my bookmark's bar... Or in my LJ e-mail update... Nope...**

**Well, I wanted to thank the many reviewers, even those I might have not replied to (I thing two or three slipped beneath the cracks). As usual reviewing is not necessary but, like Rumbelle make-out sessions, always a plus.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>After all that's happened he refuses to close the shop early. She makes a half-hearted effort at cleaning, too light-headed to pay proper attention to anything other than the other person inside the shop. She knows he's not as composed as his careful movements and easy gait seem to indicate, but it bothers her to know he can pretend better than she can.<p>

She retaliates when a costumer appears. It's a young man, well-dressed and in his twenties, with sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. He seems to be browsing or gathering the courage to speak to the pawnbroker, Belle cannot tell which. She takes her chance, climbing up the ladder with careful movements, humming a tune as she settles firmly on a rather high step to clean the leather-bound books that rest there. She's wearing a butter-yellow dress and appropriate white stockings, but as she stretches to grab a hold of an exquisite Lord Byron first edition the skirt of the dress rides up, revealing more of her legs than Gold, and the innocent bystander, have ever seen. For a moment the shopkeeper sets the clock he's still tinkering with aside and allows himself the pleasure of falling for a lovely maiden's trap.

The boy, being warm-blooded and of natural impulses, has similar thoughts and leans forward on the counter, trying to nonchalantly look up and catch more of a show. He's startled when he hears and feels a cane thumping loudly against the floor just behind him.

"Is there something I can help you with?" the clipped voice of the pawnbroker feels like ice and the blond young adult is suddenly nothing more than a frightened child caught trying to eat cookies before dinner.

"Errr…" he stutters, looking suddenly very interested in everything but the beauty that rumours say belongs to Mr Gold "I…"

The shopkeeper raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Well, lad, I haven't got all day"

The costumer stumbles backwards, in the general direction of the exit, and manages to knock into three different displays before he finally makes it out the door. For a moment everything's silent in the shop. Belle pretends to be dusting a rather wretched copy of _Wuthering Heights_ and Gold goes back to his place on the other side of the counter, picking up the tools he had abandoned earlier. Seconds drift by and tension builds till, finally, someone speaks:

"You wicked girl" Gold's tone is light and slightly chiding "Get down"

"But this whole Marlowe collection is downright filthy" she counters "I haven't the foggiest idea how you let it get so bad"

But, being the better person, she steps down after a quick sweep.

They close soon after that and, other than the electrical feeling she experiences when grasping his arm, everything is as always. It is not what she expected, and certainly not what she dreamed. The unhinged man who had so thoroughly kissed her but hours ago is nowhere to be seen and she has no idea what to do to make him see what she wants.

They arrive home and quietly hang their coats on the coatrack. Belle goes directly into the kitchen, thinking about what can be assembled into a dinner. He will be the one to cook, since he is enviably good at it, but he likes her to choose. She idly rummages through the cabinets, noticing they are running low on powdered sugar and chocolate she needs for the brésiliennes she has planned for tomorrow afternoon.

"Rum!" she calls out loud, not bothering with concealing his true name, or rather her nickname for him, when they are alone "I'll need to go to the store tomorrow to…"

Whatever she was thinking to say next doesn't pass her lips because a hand grasps her by the shoulder, whirls her around and sinks into her hair, drawing her face upwards and forward so a mouth she will never be able to forget can close over her own. It takes her a split second to recover from her initial surprise and match his urgency with her own, slanting her mouth over his, her hands eagerly exploring his back, noticing that his suit jacket and vest are gone. She's again the first to open up to him, and her tongue now knows what to do to make him moan and clutch her closer, till there is nothing between them. He maps the contours of her lips, the roof of her mouth, the rows of pearly-white teeth that tease him every time she smiles.

Belle squirms, the edge of the kitchen counter digging into her back and, so quickly she almost misses it, he moves them both around, pressing her gently yet insistently against the metal doors of the refrigerator. She arches her back as soon as it makes contact with the cold surface, the new sensation heightening the feelings he's plucking out of her like she's a violin and he some sort of musical prodigy. She wants to retaliate so, being careful of his lame leg, she slides her right one up the back of his left one and curls it loosely around his slim hip, forcing their pelvises together.

"Belle!" his voice is a strangled gasp against her lips, which he leaves to pay loving attention to her neck and her shoulders that the dress almost bares completely. Her pulse-point draws him in like a siren song so he presses several open-mouthed kisses there before clamping down and downright sucking, relishing in the taste of her skin and the force of her response. She's clutching his hair now, as if afraid he'll move away if she doesn't hold him there.

He is once again the one to break the moment, knowing the temptation of a bed upstairs will soon be too much to deny. He leans against the fridge's doors, looming over Belle, and she takes the opportunity to trace her lips across his throat and play with the collar of his shirt.

He doesn't have the will to tell her to stop.

"We should have had that little talk ages ago" she whispers against his skin, laughing that husky little laugh that he adores.

"Indeed" he replies, his voice scratchy.

"You know, you scared me for a moment back at the shop" she pauses long enough for him to fear what she'll say next "We fight, you confess your undying love- yes, it is undying, don't give me that look- you kiss me senseless and then… nothing. I had half a mind to throttle you. Or jump you"

He wonders for a second where she's heard that modern colloquialism but he quickly comes to the obvious conclusion: Ruby.

"I determined that a little privacy was in order before we… continued our discussion" his words are honeyed, his accent thick and pleasant "Though I did toy with the idea of dragging you to the back room and having my wicked way with you on my work table" he feels the way her pulse jumps at his words and smiles "Particularly after that stunt you pulled with the ladder. That was a cheap shot, my dear"

Her smirk is so devious the imp inside him shudders violently.

"I don't know what you're talking about" she pretends to pick a piece of lint from his shoulder, though it's obvious it's only a pretence to touch him "Those books were in awful shape"

"Minx"

She smiles and ducks beneath his arms, saying something about being starved that he tries not to turn into innuendo. They end up ordering from a little Italian place and eating in the couch by the fire. They talk some more, a serious and sombre conversation they need to have before they move past it. She still won't tell him about her time with the Queen, but she opens up about the asylum and her days immediately after he cast her out of the Dark Castle. They were not all awful days, not before her father snapped, and she makes it clear that she doesn't blame him for Maurice or her Majesty.

"My father would have acted the same had I never returned that first time you sent me away. I never imagined he'd be anything less than thrilled to have me back" her eyes focus on the fire, scooting as far away from it as possible. He shudders to think why "As for the Queen… She locked me up because she is an evil soul, the same way she did with countless others. No one is to blame for her despicable behaviour but her"

"Yet I let her manipulate me with ease" he replies, his fingers caressing one of her forearms, remembering how long ago he had left ugly bruises there. Belle nods, a sad look about her face.

"Because it was easier to believe her lies than to seek the truth" she seems less eager to pardon him on this and he feels glad "I want to understand you, I made the same mistake, trusted her when it suited me, when she came offering a way for me to stay with you, to 'free you from your darkness', make you more into the man I saw every once in a while" she pauses to laugh, but it's not a nice sound "What a naïve outlook, looking back. But I didn't know her, her true nature, and you did. You knew her enough not to trust her, but her lies were more enticing than the truth"

"Not more enticing… Easier to swallow. Easier to ease my conscience, they fit better with what I'd made myself believe for years. I was a monster, not a man. I was what the curse made of me and it excused me of all manner of sins" he pauses and she instinctively knows by the look on his face he's thinking of his son and whatever was that drove him away "But they were all choices, my choices. Regrettable ones, at that"

The brunette nuzzles into his shoulder, unable to stop herself from offering comfort even though she's still angry at much of what he's done. But it soothes her to see his remorse, and knows that he's lived with it for over thirty years. She has too, and it's an awful long time to really hold a grudge. She's always known she wouldn't be able to stop herself from forgiving him one way or the other, but she sees now he's more deserving of forgiveness that she could have ever hoped.

"Three decades of misery have made us better people, I think, given us perspective" she scrunches her face "I don't know whether that is a depressing thought or not" she smiles against his shoulder, too content about where they are now to give much thought to their dreary past at the moment.

The certainty that she is too good for him feels like a weight on his shoulders, but one he is more than happy to endure if it means having her in some capacity. He's good enough to recognize his imperfections, but not enough not to take advantage of her own good nature.

The conversation ends abruptly when she unexpectedly angles her head upwards to catch his lips with her own and seconds later they are embarrassingly and gloriously necking like a pair of hormonal teenagers. He wonders if the need that sparks in him the moment she's close will ever dissipate or diminish and as soon as she straddles him and his hands curl around her upper thighs he dismisses the thought as ridiculous.

When she finally decides to go upstairs to bed he stays watching the fire a bit more, just to be sure he won't simply follow her to her room and, in all likelihood, take her against the door (the imp thinks it's the best idea the man has ever had in all the centuries they've been tied together and that it needs to happen as soon as possible, more than once, and against different doors).

The days that follow find them very much like before, with the addition of random moments of affection that could be excruciatingly tender (a fleeting kiss on the corner of his mouth as he works on the accounting books, an embrace from the back while she kneads dough into delicious petit fours) or painfully passionate (the back of the shop or a nook in the library are the places where most of these encounters take place and Belle is half-terrified they will eventually traumatize some poor kid looking for a good book). There is also one other novelty. It happens suddenly and he notices almost immediately, going so far as to stop checking the registry to pay closer attention to it.

"You're singing again"

He says it as nonchalantly as he can, but the mere fact that he points it out make all the pretence null and void. She stops what she's doing, brow furrowed.

"I guess I was" she seems to be in awe of this. Singing used to be the only lady-like activity she had actually enjoyed. The whole Dark Castle had been filled with her voice when she had cleaned, and even though her companion had never voiced his approval she knew he stopped spinning every time she sang.

"You've never done that here" he tries to prod her gently and she doesn't mind it.

"I didn't feel like singing before. I used to do it back at the asylum, but it turned out to be more problematic than rewarding so I stopped. I'd almost forgotten I used to enjoy it" she pauses, tilts her head "I hope you don't mind. I imagine folk tunes don't really set the foreboding atmosphere you go for here"

He lets out a deep, suffering sigh.

"Oh, well, I'll try to cope. I'll be extra terrible, I'm sure we'll balance each other out"

Her laugh scares a middle-aged woman looking at the window display of the shop on the street, which only provokes more laughter. They know there are dark times ahead, probably horrible ones. She knows he hasn't told her everything and he that she will fight whether he wants it or not. She deserves to, after thirty years of keeping a curse at bay and bidding her time. But for a moment, a beautiful moment, they can just be themselves and let the rest of the world sort itself out.

* * *

><p><strong>Next Chapter: The Boy, aka Henry Mills. And more EmmaXBelle bonding over French pastries.<strong>


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